The only armed people within a mile of the block were Ewan and The Lord’s gang. And they were probably stood next to each other.
Oh no, if The Lord shot first…
Every negative possibility ran through Kate’s mind. The positive ones politely stayed at the back of the queue and let her anxiety do the talking. Ewan’s weapon had been found, and he had been murdered as punishment. Or he had shot himself, to avoid a prolonged death. Or he had fired a warning shot and was trying to sneak his way free. Or – most likely of all – The Lord had simply heard Grant’s threat and shot Ewan dead.
‘Kate,’ whispered Jack, ‘I’m sorry, but your three minutes have started.’
Kate looked to the floor. Her phone was powered up. She had never been less ready to talk in her life, but out of habit she leapt out of her comfort zone anyway.
As she picked up her phone, her thoughts turned to Jack: that wonderful friend who Grant had presented to New London in a dreadful light. Jack’s brain had always been a complex and interesting place, complex enough to have masked a hurtful history she could never have known. Kate could hardly turn to him and say ‘Jack, I’m so sorry you tried to kill yourself twice’, but she wanted to express some kind of sympathy.
Don’t see him any differently, she told herself. Grant wants it, and Jack doesn’t deserve it.
She shook her head, and rechecked the row of toilet holes for a fourth time. They were still alone, and the block still stank to holy hell. It had a thickness to its air, a dreadful darkness, and enough fumes to give her coughing fits. The block’s single exit served as its only ventilation and light source. The sensory onslaught had reduced her brain to a foggy mush, and combined with her survival anxiety, she could barely function as a human.
But it was the best place to be. If Charlie hadn’t run back in time with Ewan’s message, the locals could have mown through the Rowlands’ home and physically ripped them to shreds.
Kate dialled the number for comms, and ducked at the sound of another gunshot. This one had been close: Charlie had spent a bullet to frighten the crowd backwards, and it had been enough. For another few minutes, at least.
Why are they holding back at all? They must know our bullets will run out if they just storm the place.
Maybe they’re all waiting for another person to go first…
‘Hello?’ came a frantic voice in the earpiece.
It wasn’t McCormick. The comms team must have swapped over during the two days. Instead, it was a voice Kate had missed almost as much.
‘Raj?’ she cried.
She put the phone in front of her face, but saw the screen was blank. In the midst of anxiety and sensory overload, she had forgotten to make it a video call, and missed the chance to see her boyfriend’s face again.
‘Kate? You’re alive?’
‘Yeah, for now. There’s a crowd of people after us. I mean, actual people. Prisoners.’
Raj’s happy voice died a quick death.
‘You’re not…’
‘Put it on speaker,’ came Lorraine’s whisper in the background. Another voice that felt like soft music in Kate’s ears.
‘You’re in the Inner City?’ asked Raj. ‘How on Earth did that happen?’
‘Ewan tricked a laser cannon into blasting a hole in the wall. It was our only escape.’
We may have been better off dying in the corridor though, Kate thought as somebody entered a screaming match against Charlie. He was only silenced when the teenager threatened him with the handgun, and yelled something about not wanting to miss his birthday party.
‘Who’s with you?’ asked Lorraine. It was a kind euphemism for asking who was still alive, and even Kate could see through it.
‘Ewan, Charlie and Jack,’ she replied, blocking the thought of Ewan and that faraway gunshot. ‘But Alex… I don’t think…’
Her voice trailed off, and her heart started to punch the front of her chest. She was dealing with too many emotional topics at once.
‘Kate,’ said Raj with delight in his voice, ‘Alex got out! He’s spent the last two days in a nearby village, recovering from a shoulder wound. He’s waiting to see if you guys made it!’
And that was enough. The tears started to flow. Not through sadness, but through the intense cocktail of good and bad emotions. The wonder of Alex’s survival against the unknown fate of Ewan. The joy of hearing Raj against the fright of hearing Grant. Her confusion about Alex’s selfless loyalty to his doomed team, against her guilt for ever thinking negative thoughts about him.
‘Kate?’ asked Raj.
‘I don’t have much time,’ she began, ‘so–’
‘Two minutes,’ whispered Jack, who couldn’t tell it was the wrong moment to hurry her.
‘OK, um… it’s even worse than we thought in here. Everyone’s built their houses from wood and metal and stuff that’s been thrown down to them. It’s miles and miles of crowded floorspace. People die here all the time but the place is still crowded. It’s like…’
Kate dipped her gaze to the sticky floor, and realised she had neither the time nor the skill to come up with a decent analogy. New London could not be compared to anything she had ever experienced.
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘we made some enemies. And a few minutes ago Grant offered a reward for our deaths, so now the whole city’s trying to kill us.’
‘What kind of reward?’ asked Lorraine. ‘Is it something people would kill for?’
‘Their food supply.’
The silence after her words was dreadful. Kate shuddered, and filled up the silence with more words.
‘We’re planning to break out,’ she said, ‘hopefully the same way we got in. We just need to get our weapons back…’
Outside, a lady pushed her two malnourished daughters in front of her. After saying their names, she begged Charlie for the chance to kill him.
‘And if we survive the night,’ Kate continued, ‘we’ll strike at dawn. As long as the streets aren’t crowded.’
‘Good luck,’ said Raj. ‘I’ll be praying for you all.’
‘One minute left,’ said Jack.
‘I think we’ll need more than faith, Raj.’
‘I’m sorry to say this, Kate, but faith is one thing you’ve never been good at.’
Kate wasn’t sure whether to feel surprised or hurt. Her brain chose both.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Kate, I know you’ve been through a ton of horrible stuff in your life. But religious or not, have faith in something. Maybe you should have some faith in yourself.’
The phone trembled in Kate’s hand. She could have sworn she heard Lorraine in the background, whispering something like, ‘About time someone said it.’
And worst of all, they weren’t wrong. Right back to her childhood years, there had been very little for Kate to love about herself. Her gymnastics expertise may have stopped her from completely drowning in self-esteem issues, but once the gym chalk left her hands there had been nothing else to help her.
Maybe in a world full of autistic people she’d have been appreciated. But the real world had never seen her as worthy of respect, so neither had she.
This wasn’t the time to talk about her faults. Especially the incurable ones. Faith in herself was impossible when she didn’t even like herself. She dodged the point as well as she could.
‘I’d rather have bullets than belief,’ she said.
‘I’m not arguing against having weapons,’ said Raj. ‘I’m saying never underestimate faith, or having a positive opinion about yourself. Faith can turn a person’s life around with just thoughts. Think about it, that’s amazing! The only thing bullets can do is kill people.’
There was a rumble from outside, like the sound of unorganised mass footsteps.
‘Yeah. They seem to be pretty good at that–’
It happened too fast for Kate to see it. She heard a grunt from Charlie and half a yell from Jack before they fell silent, and by the time
she turned her head they lay unconscious on the dark concrete. Charlie’s pistol had vanished from his hand, held in some henchman’s fierce grip. He was followed by another two of The Lord’s men, assault rifles in their arms and grins on their faces.
That’s why the crowd never stormed the building, Kate thought. They were waiting for the professionals to do it for them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she yelled to Raj and Lorraine, ‘we’re dead. I love you guys. Goodbye.’
Chapter 22
McCormick was in his bed. Or on it, at least. He had been too lethargic to pull the covers over himself.
It must have been early afternoon. He hadn’t wasted a whole morning in bed for nearly two years, but it was a frighteningly comfortable addiction.
You can’t get into this habit, Polly’s voice sounded in his head, echoing lines from years gone by. You’ll lose everything you are.
Those words had helped, back when he had only lost his wife. They were less comforting after he had lost a war.
McCormick checked his watch, and sighed. Any longer and he would have to pretend he was ill. The expectations of his surviving housemates forced him to the edge of his bed, and he slid his feet into the nearest pair of shoes. He mopped his brow with a limp hand, and tried to put his leader face back on.
His first stop was the clinic. Shannon made no reaction as he brushed open the door. She was sitting alone on her bed, staring at the ceiling as if counting cracks. She seemed to do little else with her days, content to keep herself isolated and inactive. Perhaps being alive was enough.
‘Shannon…’ McCormick said, to no response.
Just days ago, he had thought of her silence as a sign of vulnerability. But his friends were missing while she was safe. Vulnerable or not, the girl on the bed had lost the right to remain silent.
‘You must know about our mission to Hertford,’ he said. ‘I’ve given you a few days before asking about Lieutenant Lambourne, but we need to get to the bottom of it.’
No answer.
‘We found the people you lived with. Including him. And I’m sorry.’
No answer.
McCormick’s tone was unusually impatient, and he knew why. He could no longer deny that Shannon was the reason his friends were missing. She may not have pulled any triggers, but perhaps the world might have been better off if Tylor had completed his mission.
It was an uncharacteristic thought, and McCormick hated it.
‘When you’re comfortable talking,’ he said, ‘I need to know how you came to live in that health centre, and why one of Grant’s lieutenants was living with you.’
And how you were found.
Because if it can happen there, it could happen here…
‘No questions asked,’ Shannon said. ‘That was the deal.’
McCormick sighed. He had almost forgotten that catchphrase.
‘Could you at least tell me what my friends are supposed to do with Better Days?’
Shannon turned her head away from the ceiling above her, eyebrows raised.
‘You think they’re alive,’ she said, amused.
‘I hope they’re alive. And if they are, they need to know what to do once they’re in the clone factory. To keep up your part of the deal–’
‘What do you think?’ asked Shannon. ‘Find a computer and plug in the memory stick.’
‘And then?’
‘Then you activate the kill switch on the wall. A red lever, somewhere at the back.’
McCormick said nothing. He wanted the silence to feel like encouragement for her to continue, but instead it just felt cold.
‘Lambourne and I wrote a software code that would override the factory’s safeguards,’ she said. ‘Those settings that stop the wrong liquids going down the wrong pipes, or the cubicle doors from opening before soldiers are fully grown. After that, it reverses as many processes as it can, to make the machines choke on their own backwash. So run the software, throw the switch back on, and watch the fun. Throw a grenade down there for good measure if you want. Some of the spilt liquids will be flammable.’
Of course, all this information is useless if the strike team are dead.
I’m tired of not knowing. And Lorraine has been at comms with Raj for more than twenty-four hours. I think it’s time for a swap.
‘Thank you Shannon,’ McCormick said out of courtesy and little more. ‘Lorraine will be back with you soon.’
Shannon reverted back to silent mode, and McCormick was happy to leave her alone to stare at the clinic ceiling. But before he could leave Spitfire’s Rise, there was one more conversation that needed to happen.
Conveniently, Mark’s bedroom was next door.
‘Took you long enough,’ he muttered when McCormick entered.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The police got to me in six minutes last time I broke the rules. When I lead a mission outside of your authority, it takes you two days to show up.’
‘I was hoping you would use the time to reflect,’ McCormick replied. It was partly true.
Mark shrugged his bulky shoulders, and went back to reading his book.
‘Mark, I don’t have long.’
‘Then let me go through the main points you’re about to mention. Yes, I disobeyed your greater wisdom. No, I don’t regret it. Yes, we learned a ton from it. The only thing left to discuss is what the hell you can do about it.’
He waited until the end of his little speech before looking in McCormick’s direction, pressuring him to give an answer.
‘So you don’t already know that too?’ asked McCormick, resisting the urge to add ‘since you’re clearly the cleverest person in the building’. Sinking to Mark’s level would do him no favours.
‘Some months ago,’ Mark answered, ‘Miles and Tim did a similar thing. You kept them at home for a month as punishment. And they weren’t eighteen like me. They were proper adults, so that was a ballsy move. But you won’t do that now.’
‘And why not?’
‘Partly because the next time you let them out, Oliver Roth killed Miles with a shotgun blast to the face. Maybe it was a month’s lack of practice, or maybe just coincidence. I guess we’ll never know. But the main reason’s because you can’t afford to keep me at home. Who else is left to lead the charge? Gracie? Silent Simon?’
Mark was right, and McCormick knew it. Thankfully he had known for a long time, so the words did not shock him.
‘Mark,’ he began, ‘I know you’ve spent most of your teenage years with crime and punishment at the front of your mind. But there’s more to the Underdogs than that. I don’t expect you to follow our rules because you fear the consequences. I expect you to follow them because it’s the right thing to do.’
Mark turned back to his book.
‘You’re right,’ McCormick continued, ‘there’s very little I can do. And even if I dish out a punishment, it won’t be enough to stop you making the wrong choices. The only person who can do that is you.’
‘About a hundred teachers gave me the same talk about making the right–’
‘This is about so much more than following rules, Mark. If the worst has happened – if you and Alex really are the last soldiers capable of leadership – then you’ve got an even bigger question to ask. What kind of head soldier do you want to be? And if the war really is lost, you’ve got the biggest question of all. What kind of man do you want to die as? Leadership changes people, Mark. That in itself is a responsibility. You need to let yourself be changed in the right direction.’
Mark turned the page of his book. It was better than a sarcastic comeback, at least.
Mark and Shannon both giving me the silent treatment. Maybe this is what parenting would have been like.
He left the bedroom and took a deep breath. He would make the journey to comms alone after saying goodbye to the others. But first things first.
Stood on the landing, making one final check for passers-by, he reached into the nearest empty bedroom to borrow a chair. He
opened the trapdoor on the ceiling and pulled down the ladder.
In the past, he had lied to his team by saying he had to check the attic for rats. Ewan had even called him out on it before the mission began. In reality he had given up the fight against rodents a long time ago, but there was a tradition that had to be kept every time he left Spitfire’s Rise. McCormick closed the trapdoor and concealed himself inside the attic – the only part of the house where he could truly be alone – then crawled to the ageing cardboard box next to the boiler.
Nobody else knew whose house the Underdogs had taken over, with the sole exception of Ewan. What they did not know, they could not give away through interrogation. It was a safe assumption that Daniel Amopoulos, the last one to be captured, had given away everyone’s names before he died. Thankfully he could not give away the location of Spitfire’s Rise. By twisted fortune, Grant had captured the one Underdog with such severe directional dyslexia that he wouldn’t even have been able to describe the route.
McCormick could never tell his soldiers that each day they walked on his carpets, slept in his beds and ate from his cupboards. Last year, letting a dozen people into his home would have been a Christmas party. Now it was his life, twenty-four seven.
His honeymoon photo was the first object out of the memory box. Forty-one years and eight months after being taken, the photo still portrayed Barbara with the natural elegance he always remembered about her; that moment in Anglesey sealed for eternity in a flawless glass frame. With a gentle brush to wipe the dust from her face, he gave her a kiss as always.
Barbara McCormick, now three years dead, had made Joseph McCormick the man he was. She could never have known the responsibility the future would place on her husband, but somehow she had prepared him for it. With Britain in ruins and its people all but conquered, Joseph owed it to her memory to be the man she had built him up to be.
He owed it to her to keep others safe. Even if it meant hiding them in his own home.
Chapter 23
‘Ewan,’ came a whisper, accompanied by a hand patting his shoulder.
‘Hmph.’
‘It’s four. Daylight’s not far away.’
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