Blackout

by Chris Ryan

Kate nodded, her expression impassive.

  'It's starting to make sense,' said Josh. 'Luke and Ben hacked into their software. So they want to kill him. That figures. Unless the software is invulnerable to attack, no city anywhere is going to want to install it to manage their power system. Those two boys could end up costing that company billions of dollars.'

  Josh turned away, looking towards the kitchen. 'But why do they want to kill me?' he said. 'I don't get it. I just don't get it.' A

  'Maybe they don't want to kill you, Josh.'

  He looked at Kate, puzzled.

  'Maybe they want to find you,' she continued.

  'What for?' snapped Josh. 'What the hell for?'

  'Maybe you know something, Josh -- don't you see?' said Kate.

  Josh turned to face her. Her voice sounded raw and

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  ragged. 'But what?' he said coldly. 'What do I know?'

  'Think, Josh,' she said, her voice sounding choked. 'Can't you remember anything? Anything at all?'

  Josh slammed his fist down on the sideboard, the wood, already splintered and broken, shaking under the force of the blow. Some dust fell to the floor. 'I can't bloody remember, I tell you,' he shouted. 'This is useless. I need a hospital, I need the police.'

  'No, Josh, no,' said Kate.

  Her voice sounded suddenly scared, desperately anxious. She rushed to him, putting her arms around his body and hugging him to her chest. 'It's going to be okay, baby'

  Josh shook his head. 'I need help.'

  7'rn here to help you,' she said.

  'You go to the police, a hospital, Porter will know about it, then kill you,' said Kate. 'Hell, if they think you had anything to do with shutting down the power system, they might not even bother to question you first. We need to fix this together. We need to find Luke.'

  Josh took a sip of his water. A single sentence was drumming through his mind. She's right. She's right.

  'I need to know more about Porter,' said Josh. 'You have to know what sort of man your enemy is.'

  Josh sat down at the computer. In the next twenty minutes, he started to compile a brief biography of Edward Porter, culled from the archives of a dozen different business magazines. Porter had been born in California in 1950, and had graduated from Berkeley in physics and computing. He'd spent two years in the 5th Marine Regiment, fighting in Vietnam, but had left the armed forces after being wounded in the leg. Next, he'd spent five years working first for IBM, then for Cray Supercomputers. He'd founded Porter-Bell in 1977 with a partner, Sam Bell, but Bell had left the company in 1980. It had grown rapidly in the 1980s, first with a series of military contracts, then expanding into

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  building city and industrial systems. As factories and power systems became automated during that decade, Porter-Bell developed and built the software that controlled them. It made a fortune.

  In 1992, the company listed on the NASDAQ technology exchange, making Porter an instant billionaire. He was now estimated to be worth at least ten billion dollars, and Porter Bell dominated its sector of the market. Twice divorced, with a string of mistresses, Porter had a reputation as a mean, combative entrepreneur, who ran his company with ruthless discipline and crushed the competition with relentless ferocity. Scouring the web, Josh found that there were countless articles testifying to the ferocity with which rivals who tried to muscle in on Porter-Bell's territory were flattened. For the last two years, the US Justice Department had been trying to prosecute the company for a series of anti-trust violations, but its lawyers had fought the actions all the way.

  'We have to find Morant and O'Brien,' said Josh. 'Maybe they will know where Marshall is. And if they don't, they'll be able to get us guns and ammunition, and maybe even reinforcements.'

  'We don't need weapons, Josh.'

  'What the hell do we need, then?'

  'We need your memory back. That's the only way we can get to Luke before Porter and Flatner get to them. That's what this is all about. We have to get to Luke before they do.'

  'But where is he?'

  Kate stood closer to him/You know where he is, Josh,' she said softly. 'You just need to remember, that's all.'

  The road twisted ahead of them. Kate was driving the Mustang, steering it along the road that led away from the house and out into the mountains. A truck passed, then

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  a car, but there was no sign of any patrol cars, nor of any of Flatner's bikers.

  The road is safe, thought Josh. For now.

  'How far?' he asked.

  'A couple of miles,' said Kate.

  She was driving them to one of their mountain hideouts. This one was thirty miles to the east of Boisdale, in a dusty mountain range that had once been home to a couple of tin mines but had long since been abandoned by everything except a few snakes and the occasional flock of wild cranes. Kate knew that Morant and O'Brien moved from camp to camp and she had a good hunch that this was where they would find them. For five hundred dollars, they could equip Kate and Josh with a pair of mules and enough food to last them for a month: they could collect water from creeks and wells out in the scrub. Morant would give them a map of the water sources that the survivalists used and the caves they slept in at night. They knew this terrain better than anyone else alive. It won't be comfortable, thought Josh when Kate explained it to him, but we'll survive.

  The plan, thought Josh, running it afresh through his mind, was to get out into open country. His sense was that if Luke was hiding, it would be out there somewhere. He didn't have the resources or the knowledge to travel far, not without being detected. And if anyone can find him, we can. Then, maybe, he can tell me what happened.

  Dusk was just starting to fall. The sun was dipping down towards the horizon and. the light was fading. Shadows from the mountains far to the east were lying across the road, spiked and threatening, like snakes lying in wait for their victims. Josh kept his eyes focused on the road, aware that if their enemies knew Kate was helping him, then they could trace this easily enough.

  The next few miles will be the most dangerous. Until we get out into the empty country.

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  A hitch-hiker was thumbing a lift on the side of the road: a boy of eighteen or nineteen, noticed Josh, with a rucksack at his side. For a brief moment, Josh wondered if it might be Luke. 'Keep going,' he muttered to Kate.

  Josh checked the rear-view mirror, expecting to see the boy shaking his fist or giving them the finger: cars were rare enough on this empty stretch of road for a hitchhiker to be angry with anyone who didn't stop.

  But he wasn't doing anything, Josh noticed. He looked hard into the mirror, straining to make out the shape disappearing into the distance. Then he twisted round to get a better look. The boy had turned around, walking a couple of yards off the road. His shoulders were hunched, and he was holding something in his hand. Christ, thought Josh. A mobile. He's making a call.

  'Slow down,' he barked.

  'What?'

  'Slow the bloody car,' repeated Josh.

  Kate turned to look at him, fear flashing through her eyes.

  'He's a spotter -- that bloody kid's a spotter,' said Josh.

  Kate slipped down the gears on the Mustang, putting it into second, letting the car crawl along the road at a nervous twenty miles an hour. Behind them the boy was moving swiftly across the scrubland, his phone still in his hand. He didn't look back. It was impossible to tell whether he knew they'd seen him.

  Josh scanned the area, his stare swivelling across the flat empty desert to the west and the rnountain range rising up to the east. He tried to block out the noise of the car, straining to detect any other sounds. We'll hear it soon enough, he said to himself grimly. The sound of attack.

  'You going after him?' asked Kate.

  Josh shook his head. 'No point,' he snapped. 'He's already told them we're on the road.'

  'Any turnings?'

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  Josh scanned the road. The tarmac stretched out onto the horizon, as straight as a ruler, with no sign of any crossroads. 'Nothing,' he said bitterly.

  'Want to go cross-country?'

  Josh looked both right and left. The mountains half a mile distant on the right would provide some cover. Maybe they could even find somewhere to hide there. But there was no way they could drive through them. They would have to take their chances on foot. On the left, the scrub was stretching into the far distance, its flat surface punctuated only by cacti and jagged, dangerous-looking boulders. There was nowhere to hide out there, realised Josh. They would be picked up within a few minutes.

  'No,' he said briskly. 'Too risky'

  Now he could hear the rumble of motors, growling out across the flat scrubland like the first warning of a distant storm. They were somewhere to his right, about a mile distant, sneaking through the mountains. I know that sound, he told himself. The oily roar of an engine revving into life. A motorbike. Maybe a whole bloody army of them.

  'All right, I reckon it's Plan B,' said Josh.

  Kate looked at him, and even though he could see the tension rippling through her, there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. 'Okay,' she said softly. 'What's Plan B?'

  'Run like a rat on roller skates -- and start praying.'

  Kate's foot jammed down on the accelerator. The Mustang roared, its engine howling as it started to pick up power and speed. Josh cursed himself for not taking the wheel for this stretch of the journey, but it was too late now.

  He checked behind.Three motorbikes were powering down the side of the mountain, driving in a tight V-formation. They were eight or nine hundred yards away but doing at least eighty or ninety miles an hour, and closing fast. A furious cloud of dust was being kicked up into the air as their back wheels bit into the caked mud of the desert. They spun

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  out onto the tarmac, hurtling towards the Mustang at well over a hundred miles a hour now.

  'Faster, faster,' snapped Josh.

  He could see the sweat trickling down Kate's face as she hammered the accelerator. The Mustang's two-litre engine was roaring as she struggled to extract some more power from the machine. By now they had climbed past a hundred, and were touching a hundred and ten miles an hour. The tyres were screeching against the hot tarmac. There's not much acceleration left in this tin can, realised Josh. And the bikers are still gaining on us.

  He looked in front. About half a mile ahead, more bikes, four this time, were shrieking out from behind a boulder, their engines already revved up to maximum speed. Two were in front, with two more flanking them as outriders. Definitely Flatner's men, decided Josh. As they sped towards the Mustang, he could see the men riding them: burly, leather-clad creatures, with tattoos on their arms and helmets slung down low across their faces. Except for the leader: he was wearing a Nazi helmet, with a pair of cattle horns drilled into the sides. Not much use if you had a crash, decided Josh. But good for scaring people.

  'Which way?' shouted Kate, her eyes swivelling desperately towards Josh.

  The bikes five hundred yards ahead were bearing down on them, and the bikes behind were gaining speed.Trapped, thought Josh.

  I outwitted these fuckers right after I was shot, he decided. Maybe I can do it again.

  'Keep going,' he barked. 'Drive straight into them, then swerve at the last minute and try to get past them.'

  Kate's hands were vibrating on the wheel. Josh's stare was locked on the road ahead, tracking the four bikes flanking the road as they sped towards each other.

  Four hundred yards, he calculated. Three hundred . . .

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  'Turn,' he shouted.

  Kate hauled the wheel hand over. Too much pressure, Josh realised the instant she had made her move. The Mustang skidded, its wheels losing contact with the ground. It had gone into a backspin as the momentum from the rear wheels overwhelmed the vehicle, turning it through ninety degrees within a fraction of a second.

  'Hold the wheel, hold the wheel,' shouted Josh.

  Reaching down, he grabbed the handbrake, yanking it up to try and control the spin. The brake discs howled as they clamped against the wheels and Josh released his grip. No good, he told himself. We'll have to take our chances in the scrub.

  A cloud of dust rose up from the side of the road as the Mustang slewed off it. He'd counted seven bikes in total, closing in fast, but now he could see nothing except for the swirling dirt all around them. The smell of burnt rubber filled the air. 'Go forward,' he shouted. 'Just go forward.'

  A shot. Josh recognised the sound instantly: the thud of a cartridge fired from a sawn-off shotgun.

  The back window of the Mustang crashed inwards, splinters of glass flying into their backs like a hailstorm. Josh felt two shards pricking his skin: one on his neck, the other in his back, and a hot trickle of blood ran down the edge of his spine.

  Another shot, then another. Josh heard a ripping sound. A tyre. The Mustang skidded again as first one tyre blew out, then another. The power ^in the engine was starting to fade as the lead pellets from the shotguns ripped through the car's bodywork, smashing into the suspension, brakes and engine.

  Josh looked up. Kate was still clinging to the wheel, frantically trying to bring the machine under control. The dust clouds were still obscuring their vision. Josh could just make out some boulders. A ditch that might be a dried-out creek. Then the mountains behind.

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  And now, looming through the dust clouds like shadows in the night, the outlines of two bikers.

  Death on wheels.

  Another shot. This time the bonnet flipped open, the sheet of metal catching in the wind and shooting straight upwards. The engine snarled, then stalled. To his right, Josh could smell petrol leaking onto the ground. 'Get out, get out,' he shouted. 'They're going to kill us if we stay in here.'

  The Mustang was slowing fast, down to fifteen or twenty miles an hour, losing power, its steering gone. It was skidding across the surface of the ground, out of control. Josh flipped the door open. He could see moving scrub, the ground pitted with gravel and rock. Just roll out, he told himself. And pray you don't crack open your skull on one of those stones.

  'Just jump,' he shouted to Kate. 'It's your only chance. Just jump and run like hell.'

  'I'm not leaving you,' she shouted, straining to make her voice heard over the sound of the engine and the gunfire.

  'We'll rendezvous with O'Brien and Morant,' shouted Josh.

  Josh tightened his shoulder muscles. The trick to hitting the ground at speed was to wrap yourself into a ball so that the force of the impact was deflected throughout your body. You used your arms to protect your face and your head: that was where the worst injuries would be sustained. Go, man, go, he told himself. This is your only shot at saving yourself.

  He kicked back from the car wi^i his legs, tumbling out onto the ground. At his side, he could see Kate doing the same as the Mustang ploughed onwards under its own momentum, heading straight for the jagged edges of a massive boulder formation.

  The ground impacted against his ribcage first. Josh could feel his bones rattling. None broken, he hoped, although it was impossible to tell through the pain of the fall. He rolled

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  one yard, two, then three. The ground felt rough and harsh, grating into his skin. His jeans snagged on something. A rip opened up, then something cut into his skin. He could feel his wound throbbing, the worst it had been for days. Slamming his hands down, he gripped into the dirt, breaking a nail as he dug his fingers into the ground, bringing himself to a halt.

  Josh looked up. Kate was already on her feet, running. He could not see where she was heading.

  Next, he looked ahead. The Mustang was moving straight for the boulders. As it struck, a horrific noise erupted: the sound of metal being shredded by rock. The vehicle shuddered, then a storm of sparks flew up where the metal was scraping
along the boulders. Josh closed his eyes, already aware of what was going to happen next. He heard the air being sucked forwards, then felt the first waves of the explosion brush against the skin of his face. The heat was scorching: a wave of hot air, blowing round him with gale force strength. The fireball rose straight up into the sky, scattering parts of-the car in every direction and sending a huge, oily cloud of thick black smoke boiling up. The sun was briefly blocked out, and the air smelled of petrol, scorched metal and fried dust.

  Slowly, the force of the explosion subsided. As the clouds of black smoke cleared, Josh could see two bikes driving straight towards him. The riders were each holding one end of a rope in their hands, sweeping it across the scrubland like a fishing net. Josh stood to his feet, swallowing the pain, and then he started to run. One of his shoes had come loose and was catching on his foot, threatening to trip him. No time to stop, he told himself, willing himself forwards. Another second, and they've got me.

  In the next moment, he felt the rope smash into the centre of his back. It started dragging him down, pushing him hard onto the ground. Josh tried desperately to pick

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  himself up, but it was too late. The two bikes had screeched to a halt, kicking up a wall of dust, and the rope was pinning him to the dirt, cutting into the skin of his arms, and digging deep welts into his back. The pain jabbed through him.

  I'm done for. Dead in a miserable desert, where only the wolves and the vultures will pick over my bones.

  The bikers came to a halt, stepping quickly towards him, both men holding an end of the rope tightly in their fists. The leader stood over Josh, peering into his eyes. The horns on the Nazi helmet were glistening in the sunlight. 'Make it easy for yourself,' he muttered, spitting a mouthful of stale breath into Josh's face. 'Try to sleep.'

  Josh could feel a fist smashing into the side of his neck -- once, then twice. His eyes began to cloud over, a dazzling mist drifting across his line of vision. He could feel the pain rippling through him. It started in his neck, then ran down his spine, settling in his gut.

  Another fist, this time on the other side of his neck. The blow* glanced upwards, the fist colliding with his ear. Josh could feel consciousness starting to abandon him. His mind was shutting down. Before his eyes, he could see a picture. The brunette, the woman he had seen twice now. The little girl with blonde hair, three or maybe four, opening a present, then holding out a Barbie doll. She was saying something. Her lips were moving. But what? If only I could hear as well as see her.