Shut up a second?!
Ewan hesitated, and the rumble ahead dominated the silence. Every instinct in his brain told him to disobey. Alex had never seen New London. Alex hadn’t watched Charlie die. Alex had no right to boss him around. Nobody told Ewan what to do…
‘Understand?’ Alex repeated.
It had been Ewan’s whole life. Adults who couldn’t empathise with him, believing they could tell him how to live anyway. Teachers ignoring all of his anxiety to suit their own purposes, and pretending it was for his benefit. Making decisions for him without getting it.
He pressed the talk button on his radio, the words ‘You shut up, Alex’ forming on his lips.
At the last moment, he changed his mind. For all Alex’s faults, for all his lack of understanding, he was doing what he could. He was offering to help, even if his wording was bad.
Just for once, Ewan told himself, stop letting the PDA make your decisions. You can fight harder than this.
His mind went back to the conversation with Charlie in the bedroom back at Spitfire’s Rise, and the Oakenfold Code.
The problems are not the person.
You have this problem, but you are not this problem. And if this kind of demand could still beat you, you’d have died back in the Inner City. You’ve earned your way out.
‘Ewan?’
‘…Fine, let’s hear it,’ he gasped.
‘You’re about to come up against something nasty. The “specialist unit” will try to force you out through an emergency exit at the side. The snipers are waiting for you.’
Ewan closed his eyes. With the thought of snipers planted in his mind, he could almost feel their gun barrels aimed at the roof above, two feet from his head.
‘All you need to do,’ Alex finished, ‘is tell me when you reach an emergency exit, wait there, and burst out when I tell you it’s safe. Can I trust you to do that?’
Ewan breathed an agreement, knowing he had little choice in the matter. The tunnel had grown warmer, and the low rumbles were followed by uncomfortable blasts of hot air.
He had predicted flamethrowers, and he was right.
Around the curve in the shortening corridor, the specialist unit were dressed in a uniform Ewan had never seen. Clad in fireproof red suits with both oxygen and propane tanks clamped around their backs, the twenty-ish clones pointed their flamethrower nozzles towards their unprotected victims.
The clones were not just angry. They were happy. Delighted grins adorned the faces of the flamethrower unit, as if they felt pride in the upcoming murder of their enemies.
Their onward march began. They were less than fifty metres away, and Ewan was scared. Nerves and anxiety were an everyday feeling for him and his friends, but being scared…
Kate lifted her rifle, but Jack’s hand batted it down.
‘Don’t!’ he shouted. ‘You’ll hit the canisters. The explosion would burn up all the oxygen for a mile!’
The front clone released a yellow belch of fire, that flew like dragon’s breath down the confines of the tunnel and snapped its flaming tongues just metres from Ewan’s body. Sweat from his forehead trickled into his eyes, but he could still see the emergency exit halfway between him and the flamethrowers.
‘Fine,’ snarled Kate at his side, ‘no canisters.’
Kate gritted her teeth and squeezed her trigger finger. She sprayed every gram of ammunition from her weapon, covered every square inch from one side of the corridor to the other, and rained bullets into the clones on the front rank. But her sights had been aimed an inch lower than usual, away from the explosive equipment.
With thighs, knees and shins shredded by Kate’s bullets, the front half of Grant’s flamethrower unit blocked the path of the others behind them. There were no screams, but their expressions of agony were clear enough.
Their grins gone, the back rank knelt down to shelter their own legs, using their convulsing allies as shields. With the time they gave him, Ewan ran forward and leapt sideways into the emergency exit, his hip smashing into the bar. The exit flew open, its heavy door a perfect shelter from sniper fire, and his foot landed on soil for the first time in half a week. The young blue of a morning sky poured into the tunnel, along with an infinite supply of fresh oxygen.
‘Alex, now!’ Ewan screamed, as Jack railed his bullets into the propane tanks.
Ewan could never have predicted the intensity of so many pressurised canisters exploding in such a confined space.
The next few moments did not register in his head. An enormous blast threw him off his feet. He landed somewhere, on something. His eyes opened just in time to see metallic ripples running the length of the tunnel, roaring alongside a distant vehicle checkpoint like a train passing through a station.
I am such a numpty, was the only thought that could pass through his dizzy head. The ringing began to fade in his ears, and he heard Kate screaming inside the tunnel. The phrase ‘sensory overload’ would not go nearly far enough to describe how she must have felt. Jack was back there too, apologising to her.
There were uniformed clones running around at the vehicle checkpoint. One of them was tall and black. He approached another figure who instantly fell to the ground as he passed, as if from a stab wound.
Alex…
‘Ewan?’ yelled Jack. ‘Ewan, come back!’
Ewan prepared to leap to his feet, as fast as his disoriented brain would let him, but changed his mind when he saw his surroundings. He had landed at least five metres from the safety of the exit door, with nothing around him but dried mud.
The snipers could have fired a hundred bullets into me, but they didn’t. They must think I died in the explosion, since I’ve not moved.
I won’t give them a reason to change their mind.
He tried to breathe as shallowly as possible. Through telescopic sight, maybe the snipers would see him breathing. Jack was starting to panic inside the tunnel, beginning to believe his bullets had killed his strike team leader. But Ewan couldn’t afford to call out to him, or even stick up a thumb.
At the distant checkpoint, Alex had seized an assault rifle from one of half a dozen dead clones. There was one more enemy standing, who had just thrown his stabbed colleague into the passenger side of a transport van. Alex did not shoot the last clone, instead letting him clamber into the driver’s seat and speed off towards the Citadel.
‘You guys alright in there?’ came his voice in the radio.
‘Just get us the hell out of here!!’ yelled Kate.
‘Not yet. The snipers haven’t forgotten you. Give me a second, and meet me at the brow of the hill when I shout. You’ll want to listen to this.’
Ewan moved his eyes – the only part of him he dared to move – and found the van hurtling down the tarmacked road to the vehicle entrance. It was going at fifty, at least. Then a faint voice came from the radio. It was swamped in static, as if Alex were holding a clone’s radio to his own so the whole team could listen.
‘Soldier,’ came a nervous mutter, ‘this is Arnold Salter, deployment director for Vehicle Port Three. Your intent is unknown, please clarify.’
‘Good morning, Mr Salter!’ Alex began, in full performance mode. ‘On behalf of the British populace, may I present you with a token of our appreciation for your boss’s hospitality!’
The distant van was pointed towards the vehicle port, accelerating towards its maximum speed. Ewan could only admire the driver’s determination to save his wounded colleague, futile as it was.
Then again, it was unlikely to be compassion. It must have been a tactical retreat.
‘Thanks for the explosives in the Floor X armoury,’ Alex’s voice continued. ‘There were enough in there to fill the van I’m driving! There might even be enough for the explosion to reach the Inner City and set the prisoners free, if I judged the run-up right.’
Ewan turned his eyes back to the vehicle checkpoint, and saw Alex’s face poking out from behind the wall. Alex seemed to be a good liar, and Ewan hoped Arnold Salter would
be stupid enough to believe him. Either way, Grant’s employees couldn’t afford to take risks.
Somewhere close to the vehicle port, the van started to swerve. Perhaps the driver was reaching for his partner’s radio, to tip-tap his simplified Morse code and claim his innocence. He would not manage it.
‘This is for all my friends who sacrificed themselves in that tunnel explosion to distract you!’ Alex screamed. The quick-witted creativity made Ewan smile. ‘For those who died before them, for my family inside New London, and for every dead body you and your bosses are responsible for! Good morning and good night, Mr Salter – I hope your death is more fiery than all the clones combined. At least they didn’t choose their jobs!’
Ewan was expecting sniper bullets to rattle through the van as if from a machinegun. He had not predicted that a dozen rockets would soar from the battlements to the road, from launchers that must have been stationed there for large targets. The first wave of rockets formed craters in the ground where the speeding van had been moments earlier.
‘Ewan, go!’ Alex screamed into the radio. ‘Now!’
Clones were not stupid, but they were hopelessly robotic in their obedience. Messages had been relayed. Snipers had reassessed their main targets. Each one had calculated the van of fictional explosives to be the bigger priority, and had each made the same choice to withdraw their focus from the tunnel.
Ewan leapt to his feet, and nobody shot him. He called back to a surprised Jack and an exhausted Kate, yelling for them to follow him outside.
A second wave of rockets was fired towards the distant van as the Underdogs made a break for freedom, and Ewan glanced to his right as one rocket hit the van straight on its bumper. At five o’clock in the morning on day four, the Underdogs’ longest and most arduous mission of all time ended with one final explosion. Within half a minute, Ewan, Kate and Jack had reached the safe side of the hill without a shot fired towards them.
Chapter 28
Raj’s chess skills had evaporated since Kate had said goodbye. He was still destroying Simon, but it was no consolation. Next to the game, Thomas rested the tip of his nose against the coffee table, crossing his eyes in boredom.
Simon had never been a chess expert, although to his credit he had learned how most of the pieces moved. But that morning, he had stopped trying to win from move one. He had not been the same since he had returned from the health centre, and finally accepted that his friends were probably dead.
Thomas had sulked too, but over the following days he seemed to have changed for the better. He had started to smile and had stopped crying, although neither seemed genuine.
Perhaps he’s remembered that losing his mum was tougher. And so was Takeover Day.
Or perhaps he’s just being him, and trying to cheer everyone else up.
Raj was three moves from checkmate when Simon resigned. His friend did not knock over his king: he just started to pack away his pieces. The life had drained from Simon in recent days, and Raj racked his brains for words of encouragement.
‘About ten minutes longer than usual, that was.’
Simon didn’t even nod. Raj opened his mouth for another try, but Thomas leapt up and started to make shrill noises.
Raj had not even noticed the opening door, but McCormick had entered the living room with Gracie hiding behind him. That meant the comms unit was empty, so for better or worse, the mission was over.
‘McCormick!’ Thomas shrieked. At the mention of his name Lorraine ran in from the kitchen, and Mark followed with vague interest. There was a silence of anticipation as their leader stood before them, worn and exhausted but somehow looking rejuvenated.
Please God, let him be smiling for a real reason. Please don’t let him be faking it for us like Thomas…
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ McCormick announced, ‘I have some good news and some bad news. The bad news first, of course.’
Raj took a deep breath that mirrored McCormick’s.
‘It is my sad duty to confirm the loss of one of our friends,’ McCormick started, with a voice which balanced his leadership tone with his personal grief. ‘I have to report the death of Charlie, who gave his very best to the mission at the expense of his own life.’
Raj gritted his teeth. It was never easy when McCormick announced a death, but the worst part was the guilt. Because every time a casualty was mentioned by name, Raj felt terrible for his relief that the name wasn’t Kate’s.
But… why is he only confirming one death?
‘We had the pleasure of Charlie’s company for eleven months,’ McCormick continued, ‘and we came to know his colourful character very deeply. And I know this group well enough to believe we’ll remember his enthusiasm, determination and diligence, before we remember the challenges he arrived here with. More than anything else, we can remember him in the knowledge that he died protecting a friend. Ewan promises me it was the very last thing he did.’
‘You spoke to Ewan?’ asked Lorraine.
‘Yes, which leads me to the good news. Don’t be afraid of the sudden mood change, my friends. Charlie would have wanted it.’
McCormick’s fist rapped against the door and, on cue, the handle turned.
The room sprung into rapturous cheering and applause as the impossible happened. Ewan, Kate, Jack and Alex entered the living room, arms held high and victory grins plastered from ear to ear. The dead had returned to life, the war was no longer lost, and Raj laid eyes on Kate for the first time in half a week.
Amidst the cheering, whooping, hugs of reunion and the joy that could only come from close friends being reunited against the odds, Jack raised his hand in an attempt to quell the atmosphere.
‘Guys,’ he began, as Raj shed a happy tear, ‘that’s not even the good bit. The clone factory has been destroyed!’
Raj had been to FA Cup finals that did not match the passion and ecstasy in his friends’ roars. He leapt to his feet, made his way across the room and wrapped his arms around the best girlfriend in the world. Kate surprised him with a kiss, appearing to no longer care who knew about their relationship. Thomas was laughing for real again. The smile had returned to Simon’s face. Lorraine could be seen in the kitchen gathering glasses for a celebratory toast. Even Mark was shaking hands with his colleagues: the Underdogs who had dived into Hell and come back smiling.
Except Ewan, he noticed. The strike team leader leant himself against the doorframe with his arms folded, wearing a fake smile on his lips that didn’t match the rest of his face. He drank the contents of the glass as soon as it was given to him, then skulked out of the room, tapping McCormick’s shoulder on the way.
Raj knew better than to follow.
*
Ewan reached the Memorial Wall half a minute before McCormick, and went through the major points in his head one last time. The Underdogs’ leader followed him into the cellar, with a predictable smile of sympathy on his face.
‘I’ve asked Lorraine to set up the clinic,’ he started. ‘If you don’t get that arm seen quickly you might lose it–’
‘I need to know whether we’re safe.’ Ewan said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Grant’s known our names for almost a month. It’s only a matter of time before he searches our old houses and finds us in yours. If we’re in danger, the others deserve to know.’
McCormick lifted his eyes, and checked every corner of the room. With nobody listening, he spoke softly.
‘This may be my home, Ewan,’ he started, ‘but it’s not my house. Not technically, anyway.’
Ewan was not in the mood for a coded, non-literal conversation. He needed a clear and specific answer, and he needed it right then.
‘Where are we really?’ he asked.
‘Polly Jones’ house.’
Polly…
Ewan’s eyes drifted to the top of the Memorial Wall. Maybe her name should have–
‘After Barbara died,’ McCormick continued, ‘I almost lost everything. Up here, I mean.’ He poin
ted to the side of his head with a delicate finger. ‘I was alone up in Durham, I quit my university post for mental health reasons, and withdrew a little further from civilisation each day. And then came Polly.’
‘She… knew you when you were kids, right?’
‘She knew Barbara, yes. She called me a few months after the funeral, to see how I was coping.’
There were little ripples in the tone of McCormick’s voice, and Ewan was unsure how to react. He wasn’t used to real adults trusting him with emotionally charged information.
‘I emptied everything during that phone call. All my sadness, my frustration, my anger towards the world and everything in it… and she took me in. She invited me down to London, transported my things and let me live with her. Barbara may have been the woman who turned me into a man, but Polly was the reason I survived after she was gone.’
‘So… this was her house all along?’ asked Ewan, his heartbeat steadying. ‘Not yours?’
‘Legally, yes. I lived here, but officially I was just a guest staying for a very long time. And in that time she found me a therapist, helped me get a job at Greenwich University, and pushed my life back in the right direction. But on Takeover Day–’
‘Yeah,’ interrupted Ewan in a bitter voice. ‘I know.’
He shook his head, emptying his brain of its thoughts like a mental sieve.
‘As sad as it sounds,’ McCormick continued, ‘there’s no written evidence Polly and I were ever friends. But on the plus side, that’s why we’ll never be found here.’
‘That and the thermal blocker keeping our body heat off their scans.’
‘Yes, I thank your father’s soul for that every day. But we’re safe here, Ewan, and that’s the end of it. If Grant knew about my connection to Polly, he’d have flattened this place long ago.’
The answer satisfied Ewan, but he didn’t budge.
‘What else is there, Ewan?’
‘…Charlie.’
‘You don’t have to talk about this now,’ said McCormick. ‘Give yourself time if you need it. I’m not going anywhere.’
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