He had a glimpse of the side of the void, a red blur as it flashed past him. He realized how far they’d fallen.
He knew he probably wasn’t far from the nuclear device he’d planted.
But he didn’t know if Sweeney would detonate it with him directly in the blast radius.
He couldn’t take that risk.
At that moment, Drake knew he was likely to lose his life.
Rebecca One was preventing him from reaching the detonator with his good hand. But he had to reach it somehow.
That was when he remembered the booster attached to the side of his Bergen. He stopped shielding his face from the twin’s vicious onslaught and managed to detach the booster and fire it up. The propellant mix was still on the maximum setting from when he’d last used the booster.
He and the Rebecca twin accelerated down the rest of the void, quickly reaching breakneck speed.
Drake angled the booster so that they went into a spin. His limp arm swung into his field of vision and into his reach.
They were still moving at an incredible rate as he cut the booster and snatched the detonator from his numb fingers.
He and Rebecca One had almost reached the zero-gravity belt. Drake knew he was still far too close to the nuclear device.
But that didn’t matter now.
He clicked the arming button.
The detonator in Sweeney’s hand bleeped as it picked up the signal.
He glanced at it.
“BOMB!” Sweeney screamed at Will and Elliott. “GET OUT OF HERE NOW!”
They weren’t about to argue with him.
They sprinted away from the edge of the crater, the low gravity helping them as they fled.
“Nice knowing you, Becky,” Drake said to the Styx twin as they left the void and burst into the zero-gravity belt, still moving at phenomenal speed.
She saw he was smiling.
Then she saw his finger was poised over a button on the detonator.
Her lips began to form the word no, but she never uttered it as Drake pressed down.
There was a blinding flash, as bright as a thousand suns.
Sweeney swung the struggling Styx woman in front of him. “I can’t get away in time.”
He moved Vane closer to him.
“The EMP will fry my circuits.”
He contemplated the Styx woman’s wriggling egg tubes as they dripped liquid. He knew he should probably kill her, but at that moment life had become sacred to him. All life.
“Give us a last kiss, darl —” he whispered to her.
As the nuclear device went off down in the void, the electromagnetic pulse swept over him.
The grids on Sweeney’s face instantly glowed white hot, the skin around them burning, and two small plumes of smoke issued from his ears.
Then as the circuitry in his head reached critical point, his head simply exploded. Like a massive felled tree, he toppled over, taking the Styx woman with him.
The Earth shook, and a torrent of dust and debris shot from the crater. But this lasted for less than a second, as the bottom of the void closed in on itself.
As Vane tried to extricate herself from under the huge man, she was cackling maniacally. Apart from a few broken ribs, she believed she’d escaped.
But in the aftershock of the bomb, she’d failed to hear the tiny tinkle of glass as Sweeney hit the ground, crushing the test tube in his hip pocket.
By the time the Limiter General reached the scene half an hour later, Vane had lesions on her skin and was coughing up blood. When he tried to find out from her what had happened, she was too feverish and didn’t make any sense.
He naturally assumed it was radiation sickness. That was, until the Styx Limiter and the garrison of New Germanians who’d been present at the crater all began to show identical symptoms. Even though, in theory, they hadn’t been close enough to the blast to be badly affected.
Within twelve hours, Vane and every one of the soldiers had died from the fever.
The Limiter General himself, having returned to the city of New Germania, collapsed and died shortly afterward.
And, blown on the dry winds, the pathogen spread.
And spread.
AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, Stephanie was browsing through a magazine she’d read more times than she cared to remember. As her grandfather entered, she looked up expectantly.
“Any news?” she asked.
“I got Parry, but I’m afraid he still hasn’t heard anything,” Old Wilkie said as he put the satphone on the dresser.
“Nothing? So we still don’t know if Will’s OK.”
Her grandfather shook his head. He opened his bag to extract two rabbits he’d just shot, and laid them on the table. Stephanie wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“How’s Chester doing?” Old Wilkie asked.
“Same old, same old. Just sitting there, like he always does,” she replied.
Old Wilkie nodded. “What about those books I got for him? Parry says he enjoys reading.”
“He’s, like, whatever. Can’t say I blame him, though. I started one of them called” — she groped for the title — “The Highland Mole or something.” She rolled her eyes as she stuck her tongue out. “Talk about being, like, completely unrealistic.” Shaking her head, she dropped her gaze to the magazine article she had, for the umpteenth time, been poring over, with the title “X Factor — The Future of Britain’s Talent.”
“He likes those types of books,” Old Wilkie countered. “Just go and spend some time with him, will you? Try to get him to talk.”
Letting out a sigh, Stephanie slapped her magazine shut and rose from the table. As she reached the door, she pushed it open a fraction to peer into the adjoining room. Chester was simply staring through the window at the sky above the sea.
As she went in, he quickly lifted the book in his lap. He didn’t look at her, pretending to be immersed in the story.
Stephanie regarded him for a moment. He’d lost a lot of weight in the months they’d been in the cottage. And although there were some spectacular views from the cliffs where they were in Pembrokeshire, he never ventured out. The old Chester would have liked it there, probably going for long walks along the coastal paths.
But not now. He didn’t want to talk to her or anyone else. There was no interest in anything any longer. He just wanted to be left alone with his grief.
Stephanie turned and went back into the kitchen, where her grandfather was gutting the first of the rabbits.
On the very top of the pyramid, deep in the jungle, Will was facing where he knew the city of New Germania lay.
“I don’t ever want to go back there. Never again,” he said. “It was awful.”
Elliott stepped beside him. “Don’t say that — we might need to fetch some more supplies.”
But she, too, didn’t sound very happy about the prospect of a second expedition to collect canned foods and clothes from the silent shops. Together they’d walked the flyblown, deserted streets, the stench of the dead in their nostrils everywhere they went.
“We have all we need right here,” Will insisted, lowering his gaze to their old base in the giant tree, where they were living again.
A flock of bright blue parrots had gathered in the low branches beside it. They came every day, hoping for some scraps of food. Or maybe it was because not just all the humans and the Styx had been wiped out by the virus, but most of the mammalian species in the inner world, too, and they were simply seeking the company of other living beings.
One of the parrots cawed noisily, as if it was complaining about having to wait for some leftovers.
“I saw one of the bushmen this morning,” Will said.
Elliott looked at him. With all the other predators eliminated from the
inner world, the strange race of humanoids with their woody skin was the only thing that could pose a threat to them.
“It wasn’t far from the spring. I was stepping over what I thought was a log on the ground, when I saw it had eyes. So it looks like they’re all dead, too.” Will sighed. “It’s just us and the birds and the fish left.”
Elliott nodded. “Speaking of fish, guess what we’re having for lunch.”
“Er . . . fish?” Will said, playing along with her.
“No. Mangoes,” she replied, laughing as he made a face. She fell silent for a moment. “You were looking for the Doc again, weren’t you?”
Will believed that the Limiters had dumped his father’s body in the jungle somewhere close by, and was determined to find it. He and Elliott had already buried Colonel Bismarck and what was left of Sweeney’s body beside the spring.
Without being aware he was doing it, Will turned to glance at the place on the top of the pyramid where his father had been gunned down by Rebecca Two.
“Yes, I was,” Will confessed. “Even if Dad wasn’t who I thought he was, he has a right to a proper burial. I owe him that.”
“And what about you?” Elliott asked suddenly. “What if, all those years ago in Highfield, the Styx used their Dark Light on you, and turned you into someone else . . . someone that I fell in love with?”
“What?” Will said quickly, turning to her.
“You heard,” she said softly, putting her arms around him.
And he did the same, holding her tight.
“Emma, I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you,” Rebecca Two said, holding the door open for the long-limbed girl with tawny hair.
“So am I,” Emma replied, the regret evident in her eyes.
An hour earlier she’d been in the sauna with Alex, the heat turned up as a Darklit human was thrown at her feet. It had been the masseur who had worked at the health farm, a choice specimen with his highly muscled body.
But, despite the proximity to Alex, Emma hadn’t changed. She’d experienced the shooting pains across her shoulders and the gagging sensation in her throat where her as-yet-undeveloped egg tube nestled, but that had been it.
She hadn’t been induced because, quite simply, she wasn’t ready for the Phase yet.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Rebecca Two said as Emma made her way to the waiting car. The girl was crestfallen and didn’t answer, just took her seat in the vehicle. She’d go back to the elite girls’ private school as if nothing had happened, and neither would her Topsoiler family be any the wiser about where she’d spent her Saturday.
Rebecca Two remained outside in the chill of the late afternoon, watching the gray saucer of the sun as it slowly dipped toward the horizon. Without any warning, tears began to well up in her eyes.
When they’d returned Topsoil, it had been confirmed by a Limiter patrol that the passage into the inner world was impenetrable, sealed by what they thought had been a nuclear explosion. A second Limiter patrol had been tasked with the unpredictable journey through the zero-gravity belt but hadn’t yet reported back in. This might have been because they’d perished in the attempt, but Rebecca Two wasn’t expecting good news, anyway.
She’d had this feeling in her for weeks. It was as if part of her had suddenly been lopped off and, in its place, there was a dark shadow. Something had gone terribly wrong, and her twin sister was either in difficulty. Or dead.
She just knew it.
As she sniffed and wiped her eyes, the old Styx appeared beside her. He gave her a lingering glance. It wasn’t done for Styx to show such emotion, and he might have rebuked her if there hadn’t been more pressing matters to attend to.
“You need to see this.”
He led her inside the building and up the steps to the viewing area at the end of the swimming pool.
As Rebecca Two peered down, she saw that the water was a murky brown from the blood and decay of the many corpses on the walkways around the pool. Plump Warrior larvae slithered along the tiles, while others had already gone into pupation, their chrysalises hanging from the walls.
“So? What am I looking at?” she asked curtly.
“There,” the old Styx said.
She followed his gaze to a far corner of the pool. The water began to broil, then, with a massive splash, something burst from the surface and landed on the tiles.
With the filthy water draining from it, she could see a form the size of a man, but it was almost transparent, like a shrimp. Clear fluids pumped around its body as its gills fanned open, and it howled like nothing Rebecca Two had ever heard before.
“So it’s not just a myth,” she whispered in awe. “It’s the Armagi.”
I would like to thank . . .
My wife, Sophie, and my two sons. There wouldn’t be anything without them.
Barry Cunningham, who is so much more than just my editor or publisher. Until we met up early in the summer of 2010, I had quite a different middle section planned for Spiral. Out of the blue, Barry asked me if the Styx were really human or not. As I do every time this question is bowled at me by readers, I tried to avoid giving him an answer, but he was insistent. Barry’s like that. As I opened up a little to him and we continued to chat, it crystallized some radical ideas about the Styx women and changed the course of the book. So if you don’t like the way the story turned out, you know who to speak to.
Catherine Pellegrino of Rogers, Coleridge & White — the best literary agent and hand-holder a writer could hope for.
Karen Everitt, who plays such a crucial part in the writing process as she corrects my countless mistakes using her encyclopedic knowledge of the series.
Kirill Barybin, an exceptional young artist who got in contact through TunnelsDeeper.com, and who keeps me inspired with his work in those dark, lonely months of writing.
Andrew Douds for his invaluable advice. Any inaccuracies are entirely my own.
Rachel Hickman, Elinor Bagenal, Steve Wells, and Nicki Marshall at Chicken House, and David Wyatt (cover artist extraordinaire), who together made this book what it is.
At Scholastic in New York, Siobhán McGowan and Starr Baer, Joy Simpkins, Jacqueline Hornberger, Kevin Callahan, and Whitney Lyle.
Simon and Jen Wilkie, and Craig Turner, who together with Karen Everitt run TunnelsDeeper.com, and have done so much for the series.
And a host of people I should have mentioned before now, because in various ways they’ve been so important in helping, supporting, and influencing me as the series has progressed. They are: Mathew Horsman, Rosemary Gordon (my mother), Diana Harman (my sister), Patrick Robbins, Andrew Fusek Peters, Richard and Kathy Lynam, Chris and Sue White, Stuart Clarke, Simon and Miranda Grafftey-Smith, Ray Rough, Joel M. Guelzo, and Simon Finch.
Roderick Gordon 6 April 2011
Text copyright © 2012 by Roderick Gordon.
Inside illustrations © Roderick Gordon except: Sweeney, BT Tower, and the Old Styx © by Kirill Barybin; Skull Gate, the Colony, Coprolite, and spade, shovel, and machete chapter-ending spots © by Brian Williams.
www.tunnelsthebook.com
All rights reserved. Published by Chicken House, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. CHICKEN HOUSE, SCHOLASTIC, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
www.scholastic.com
First published in the United Kingdom in 2011 by Chicken House, 2 Palmer Street, Frome, Somerset BA11 1DS.
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Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright holders. The publishers would be pleased to rectify any errors or omissions brought to their notice, at the earliest opportunity.
Song lyrics from “Let’s Panic Later” by Wire © 1979
The Book of Proliferation. English translation © 2000
Professor Grady Tripp, used with his kind permission
Song lyrics from “The Son of God Goes Forth To War” by Reginald Heber (1812)
Song lyrics from “Time Is on My Side” by Jerry Ragovy © 1963, as later recorded by the Rolling Stones in 1964
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Gordon, Roderick.
Spiral / Roderick Gordon [and] Brian Williams. — 1st American ed.
p. cm. — (Tunnels series ; bk. 5)
Previously published: Frome : Chicken House, 2011.
Summary: The outer crust is under attack by the subterranean Styx who are turning ordinary humans into walking bombs and incubators for their eggs, and only Will Burrows and his band of retired commandos stand in their way — but the Styx also have problems of their own.
ISBN 978-0-545-42961-0 — ISBN 978-0-545-43027-2
1. Civilization, Subterranean — Juvenile fiction. 2. Science fiction. 3. Adventure stories. 4. England — Juvenile fiction. [1. Underground areas — Fiction. 2. Adventure and adventurers — Fiction. 3. Science fiction. 4. England — Fiction.] I. Williams, Brian. II. Title.
PZ7.G6591Spi 2012
823.92—dc23
2012001989
e-ISBN 978-0-545-53014-9
First American edition, May 2012
The display type was set in Squarehouse.
Cover art © 2012 by David Wyatt
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
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