‘Follow the tunnel north,’ the General had told her. A simple enough instruction, but which way was that? Trusting her instinct, she took the left branch of the tunnel and began to make her way along it, the sound of gravel crunching beneath her boots. For once in her life she was glad she was so short. Any taller and she would have had to bend double. Every thirty feet or so, even narrower tunnels branched off like dark mouths, carrying cables in all directions.
After what seemed like an age she came to the tunnel’s end. A borehole plunged down into the bowels of the earth, taking cables to the deep level telecoms system that spanned London. And at the very end was a metal door labelled “Trafalgar Square Station.”
She frowned briefly in puzzlement before recalling that Trafalgar Square was the original name for Charing Cross station. The General had not let her down.
She pushed open the door and was assaulted with an even harsher smell of cold, wet clay. A drip-drip sound echoed from below. Slowly she descended into the darkness, her boots ringing loudly off the metal stairs. She had only gone a few feet before she stopped in dismay. The entire stairwell below her was flooded.
She stopped to gather her thoughts. The Bakerloo line at Charing Cross was one of the deep underground lines, sunk to a depth of sixty feet so that it could cross beneath the River Thames. If the tunnel had been breached, then water from the river would have flooded into it, filling the entire deep railway network with water. There was no way through.
So much for your plan, General. Your blasted bombs have brought it to a quick end.
There was nothing to do except turn around and go back up the stairs. She returned to the Q-Whitehall tunnel and set off back along its length. When she reached the door leading back into the Ministry of Defence basement, she continued on past it, following the tunnel south. She was following her own gut now, free of General’s Ney’s controlling instructions, tracing a route deep beneath Whitehall, heading toward the Treasury Building on King Charles Street. She wondered if it would connect to one of the near-surface underground stations, or perhaps lead back up into one of the government buildings, if any were still standing.
Dirt and dust trickled from the roof as she walked, and in places her feet splashed through puddles, but eventually she reached a steeply sloping stair leading up. She followed it up through several landings before she reached a sealed door. The door resisted her, but she pushed and pushed and eventually it gave way, spilling her out into blinding sunlight. She fell to her knees and stared out, blinking and shielding her eyes, trying to make sense of her surroundings.
She was in London, or a ruined version of the once-great capital. All around stood crumbling facades of famous buildings. Westminster Abbey, the gothic church that had stood for nearly a thousand years, and in which every British monarch since William the Conqueror had been crowned, had collapsed in on itself. The Palace of Westminster, once the home of the House of Commons and the House of Lords was now a smoke-blackened ruin. Incredibly, the Elizabeth Tower, known more commonly as Big Ben, still rose above the charred landscape, strangely defiant amidst the destruction. Water lapped at the base of the tower. Somehow the river must have burst its banks. The central arches of Westminster Bridge had collapsed too, and on the south bank of the river, the huge circular wheel of the London Eye had toppled and fallen into the water. It lay on one side, half submerged, its glass capsules broken and flooded.
Behind her, only the stump of a building remained, a few white columns and arches visible above a mountain of fallen masonry. From its location opposite the Houses of Parliament she deduced that this must once have been the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, the Grade 1 listed building that had been one of the jewels of Whitehall. It was a miracle that the exit from the tunnel hadn’t caved in, or been buried beneath the mounds of rubble.
The Prime Minister shuddered. If she needed proof that the world she had known was utterly gone, it was here all around her. She allowed herself a final look, committing the desolate scene to memory, then turned away from it, heading west along the edge of St James’ Park.
London had fallen, but her country needed her. Perhaps more than ever.
Chapter Forty-Five
Uffington, Oxfordshire, waning moon
Chris was furious, angrier than he’d been for a very long time. Angier even than when he’d shoved Seth down the hill and broken his ankle. Almost as angry as the time he’d been forced to take the job as tech support guy at Manor Road school, after being rejected for every other job he’d applied for. But he knew that he had to keep his anger in check. Look what had happened before. If he hadn’t lost his temper with Seth, he would be in Hereford now, not stuck on a hilltop with this latest bunch of morons.
The idiots had arrived while Rose and Ryan had been away on their food-hunting mission. They had simply wandered up the hillside as if they were out for a Sunday afternoon picnic, and Chris had known as soon as he’d seen them that they were trouble. But he’d had no way to escape. They had joined him and Seth, and sat down on the grass, all friendly and eager to talk. Chris detested people who talked so much, especially when it was obvious that they had nothing intelligent to say.
They were discussing the white horse now, and as Chris had suspected, they knew nothing.
‘You can’t actually see the horse from here, can you?’ said one of the guys, a loud-mouthed freak called Josh. He wore a zip-up top, sweatpants, white training shoes, a baseball cap screwed on sideways, and had studs in each ear.
‘Yeah,’ said his girlfriend, Brittany, who had purple hair and heavy eye makeup. ‘Like, what’s the point of it, then?’
Josh seemed to think he knew the answer. ‘I expect it’s like those animal drawings in the desert in South America. What’s that place called? The pictures are so big you can only see them from the sky. Like they were made to be seen from UFOs or something.’ He looked to Chris for confirmation.
‘You mean the Nazca Lines in Peru,’ offered Chris grudgingly.
‘Yeah, that’s it. Exactly,’ said Josh. ‘I guess this is the same. See that flat-topped hill down there, near the horse? That must be a landing pad for UFOs. Like, mind blown.’ He took a swig of his beer and offered a can to Chris. ‘Sure you don’t want some of this?’
‘No. I don’t drink beer.’
‘You smoke weed, then? Don’t suppose you have any on you, by any chance?’
‘No.’
‘Us neither. All our shit’s gone. But it’s not all bad. We’ve still got plenty of beer.’
He passed a can to Seth, who pulled it open and took a swig. ‘Thanks,' said Seth.
Chris scowled at him.
One of the other newcomers pulled out a flute and began to play a breathy, high-pitched tune. Brittany swayed along in time to the music. The three other strangers sat in silence, drinking beer and throwing surly looks Chris’ way. Josh had introduced them on arrival, but Chris had already forgotten their names. What did it matter? They were nobodies. Hopefully they would leave soon, and he would never have to see their stupid faces again.
‘So who do you reckon drew the horse, Chris?’ said Josh. ‘Aliens?’
‘People,’ said Chris. ‘There’s no such thing as UFOs. And you don’t need to be able to see the horse from the sky in order to draw it.’
‘How else could you do it?’
‘You could draw a small version first, then scale it up, just like architects do when they design buildings.’
A hush fell over the group while Josh digested Chris’ insight. The flute player paused and the temperature seemed to fall a few degrees. Josh’s eyes narrowed. ‘Dude, you don’t know it all. Don’t start thinking you’re smarter than us. Because you’re not.’
Brittany threw her beer can on the ground and pulled the ring off another. ‘So, tell us, Chris, if you know everything, what caused the apocalypse? Where did all the werewolves come from?’
‘It’s a contagious disease,’ said Chris. ‘Scientists believe that it origin
ated in central Europe, probably Romania.’
Brittany smiled at him, victory in her eyes. ‘See? You’re not so clever after all. That’s what they want you to think.’
‘Who?’
‘The government,’ said Brittany. ‘It was the government that caused it.’
‘Which government?’
Josh took over. ‘That’s not important, Chris. Governments are all the same. USA, Russia, Britain, China. It could have been any one of them. Perhaps it was all of them working together. It may not even have been the government, just some corporate arseholes. Makes no difference. When you start looking at everything that’s fucked up with the world, who do you find at the bottom of the rabbit hole? Old, white men. Rich, corporate dudes. Anyway, whoever did it, they’re totally fucked now. They got what was coming to them.’
‘Yeah,’ said Brittany. ‘Now nature’s back in the driving seat. Look around. The forests are growing again. It was bound to happen. You can’t unbalance the universe as much as we did and not expect it to fight back.’
Chris looked around, but couldn’t see the forests she was talking about. There wasn’t a single tree on the hilltop. But he did see Rose and Ryan returning with some supplies.
‘Are those your friends?’ asked Brittany. She stood up and called to Rose and Ryan, beckoning them over. ‘They look like fun,’ she said to Chris. ‘More fun than you.’
Rose and Ryan approached cautiously, carrying the boxes of food and drink.
Josh’s mouth widened into a grin. ‘Food, that’s awesome. Let’s share it. You can share our beer. I’m Josh. This is Brittany.’ He didn’t bother to introduce the others. The flute player began his mournful playing again.
Rose looked the newcomers over warily. ‘Where are you heading? Are you planning to stay the night here?’
‘We’re going to Glastonbury,’ said Brittany. ‘You know? The festival? Although, obviously, there’s no festival now.’
‘There will be once we get there,’ said Josh, laughing. ‘Glastonbury, here we come!’
‘Hey,’ said Brittany. ‘Why don’t you come with us? The more the merrier! We can help to carry your friend, Seth. That sounds good, yeah?’
‘No,’ said Chris, desperately. ‘We’re not going to Glastonbury. We’re going to Hereford.’
‘Hereford,’ repeated Josh. ‘I’ve been there. It’s a bit of a boring place. Just cows and stuff. You know? Agriculture. Why do you want to go there?’
‘Yeah,’ said Brittany. ‘Forget that. Come to Glastonbury instead.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rose.
‘Well, it’s the same route most of the way,’ said Josh. ‘No need to make a decision right now. We can travel together for a while, either way.’ He pulled more cans of beer out of his rucksack and passed them around. ‘Let’s just have some fun while we can.’
Chapter Forty-Six
Norbury Park, Surrey, waning moon
The infection was gone at last, and Griffin’s leg was as good as it would ever be. He had removed the dressing now that the skin had healed. The scar tissue would harden over time, and perhaps eventually fade, but it would never be pretty. Neither would the swelling where the bone had fractured. But the redness had receded and the feeling had returned.
Not that it felt good.
It was still unbelievably painful to put pressure on his leg. Standing was agony. Walking was simply impossible.
His goal now was to build up his strength. Although he was desperate to start looking for Chanita, he knew that to proceed recklessly would guarantee that he never reached her. He was no good to her dead.
Life in his own little corner of paradise was slowly getting better. He was getting the hang of hunting and foraging, and growing to like the taste of what he found. And the weather was gradually improving too. The Vernal Equinox had passed and it was getting light early. The birds sang noisily in the trees, the blackthorn and cherries were in full blossom, there were buds on the hawthorn, and the trees and hedges were in leaf.
Warm, sunny days, and no shortage of bugs for me to chew.
No, he was in no hurry to leave the forest glade. He had long since given up counting the days since the crash. What did it matter? He was going nowhere. It was wiser to stay put. There was still a faint chance that rescue would come, although that seemed distinctly unlikely. More pertinently, he was safe here, and if he moved away from the crash site he risked getting lost.
You are lost already, Griffin.
All right, technically he was lost, but he had a rough idea of his location. If he ventured away from here, he might head in the wrong direction and miss his destination entirely.
But that is a weak excuse.
His navigation skills were good. He could use the sun to determine the points of the compass, and he was in southern England not a desert. It would be impossible to travel very far before encountering a road or a town, or some landmark that would allow him to pin down his position.
But I cannot walk.
Then make a pair of goddamn crutches!
These were all mere excuses, and he should take no notice of them. The fact was, there was no longer a compelling reason to stay here any longer. It was time to begin his journey.
He searched the clearing for some sturdy branches and spent the rest of the morning fashioning them into crutches with the help of his knife and rope. Hauling himself upright was excruciating, but he managed it after a few attempts and stood on his one good leg, his weight balanced on the crutches.
The thought of Chanita waiting for him in the western camp gave him strength.
He took one clumsy step, then another. Before too long he was striding around the clearing, swinging his leg and his crutches like a pro.
Carrying his tent and equipment would pose an extra challenge.
He packed everything up, drank once more from the stream and refilled his bottles ready for the long journey. The pack on his back was heavy, and already his leg was aching from all the practising. He would be sure to take it easy and not set himself any daily target. In any case, he had no way of measuring distance, and no clear idea how far he would have to walk. The journey would take as long as necessary.
One thing he knew. The first step would be the hardest.
He was wrong about that. The first step was easy. But after half an hour, the sweat was pouring down his back and the wooden crutches were rubbing the skin from under his arms. It was hard going, trudging through the forest, ducking under low branches, pushing through thickets, and avoiding the roots that snaked across the forest floor. He leaned against a gnarled oak tree to rest and drink water.
It was tempting to sit down, but he knew how hard it would be to get back on his feet again.
Go on. Just a short rest. You’ve earned it. Take the weight off your leg.
He could stop here if he wanted. He could set up his camp for the night in this sheltered spot, knowing that he had at least begun his journey.
No need to overdo it, Griffin. Just a little walking every day.
But that would be pathetic. Chanita’s face loomed in his mind’s eye, smiling at him sardonically. ‘Yeah, don’t push yourself, Colonel. It’s not like I’m in any kind of hurry to see you after all this time.’
‘Sarcasm, huh?’ he told her, grinning. ‘You think I’ve just been sitting about all this time with my feet up? I’ve had one or two little problems to deal with.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ her honeyed voice drizzled in his ear, ‘we’ve all got problems to deal with. Don’t think that special rules apply to you, even if you are the best-looking doctor I’ve ever met.’
He gripped his crutches and stumbled off again, heading in the direction he figured was north-west. It didn’t take him long to reach the edge of the forest. A gentle meadow spread out before him. In the distance he could see the edge of a town.
Civilization. It had been just a couple of hours’ walk away. Life might be going on as normal, just a short walk across the field. But som
ehow he didn’t think it would. What could “normal” possibly mean now that London had been obliterated? Economic collapse, werewolves hunting the survivors, criminal gangs at large? He changed his path to route him well away from the distant town. He had managed well enough on his own for weeks, and he had no intention of risking meeting other people now.
There was only one person in the whole world he wanted to see.
‘I’m waiting for you, Colonel.’ Her rich, melodic voice in his head was a soothing balm. ‘I’m not going anywhere without you.’
‘I’m coming for you, girl,’ he said aloud. ‘I’m on my way and nothing’s going to stop me.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
Uffington, Oxfordshire, waning moon
The long snaking road stretched out before Warg Daddy, beckoning him on. Where it led, nobody knew, but he would follow it always, mile after endless mile. For the road was his, and he was the road.
It wound its way between rolling hill and deep forest, from burned-out village to abandoned farmstead. Sometimes bending, sometimes straight; rising, falling; forever changing. But it never stopped. The road went on and on, for the road was everything, and there was nothing but the road.
This was the best part of the day for riding. Twilight, when the glaring rays of the sun had faded, and the night was folding over the land, bringing peace and tranquillity to his thoughts. The only sound now was the steady roar of his engine, throbbing between his legs. There were no worries, no choices, only the road. He took the next bend in a lazy arc, keeping to the centre line. The road was his now, his alone, and he would follow it, right until its very end, all the way to destiny.
Destiny. It was the place we were all heading, whether we knew it or not. Some fooled themselves, thinking they could choose their own path. Warg Daddy knew better. There were no choices, only one path, only fate.
Lycanthropic (Book 4): Moon Rise [The Age of the Werewolf] Page 20
