End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  They didn’t get far.

  A second team of guards had been waiting for the idiots to break ranks. The raiders had been so intent on the barricade that they hadn’t seen them till they were shooting. Now, with the smoke clearing, the first set of guards dropped idiots three and four in a heartbeat.

  The impromptu battlefield fell quiet, save for the alarm that warned any other would-be attackers to keep their distance.

  When it was obvious that none of the idiots were getting up any time soon, four of the guards darted out from behind the blockade, compact rifles up and ready. L22 carbines. Effective enough, but not great over distance. Worth noting.

  Splitting into pairs, the first checked the bodies on the ground, while the second made sure no one else was lying in wait. Of course there wasn’t. The attack had been bungled from the start; the guard who’d been shot was unlucky in the extreme.

  I lowered my scope as the siren finally died, a strange hush settling on the surrounding fields. I looked around, taking in more of the landscape. It had been years since I’d been here, long before the Cull. The complex had just opened, the pride of the MoD, the biggest base of its type on home soil. There had been much back-slapping and congratulations among the top brass, but I had found its location as funny then as I do now.

  A classified installation built slap bang next to an out-of-town retail park. Well, I guess civil servants needed somewhere to mooch around during lunchtime, even if it was just Asda. Oh, and Matalan. All those cheap polyester shirts and garish ties had to come from somewhere.

  Stow it, soldier. No need for lip.

  Sir, no sir, etc.

  I suppose the point was that the original occupants of MoD Abbey Wood weren’t soldiers, not the majority anyway. They were pencil-pushers, bean-counters. Put a gun in their hands and they’d have been just as effective as the idiots who’d just tried to storm the place.

  The dead idiots.

  A smile tugged at my lips, pulling at scar tissue that I barely noticed any more.

  These idiots are no more. They have ceased to be. They’ve expired and gone to meet their maker. These are late idiots.

  It’s funny what you miss, even after all this time. I always liked a bit of Python. Can’t remember who introduced me to Graham, John, Terry and the rest; everything before the Cull sort of blurs into one. Could have been my Dad, or old Tony next door, maybe even someone from a school.

  It certainly wasn’t Jasmine. She couldn’t stand John Cleese. Made her skin crawl, she said. Something creepy about him.

  Stowing the scope in my pack, I eased back from the edge of the roof, scuttling on my hands and knees like a spider.

  Well, maybe not scuttling. Not that fast anymore. Not if I don’t have to.

  I made my way back to the air-conditioning unit before standing, although I stayed in a crouch. Not that anyone would be looking this way. They had problems of their own to deal with.

  As I crept over to the ladder, I wondered what they did with the bodies. Fresh meat in the staff canteen tonight?

  It should have been easier going down the ladder than it was coming up. My body shouldn’t ache this much. I told myself that it was because I’d stayed in one position for too long. Yeah, that had to be it. There was a nip in the air, winter’s last hurrah. I looked up. Clouds were gathering, dark and full, first drops of rain already falling, icy cold. I needed to get to cover.

  I jumped down the final three rungs, the impact jolting my body.

  And there came the rain, heavier now. It always rained whenever I came to Bristol. Bloody city. Anyone would think it wasn’t pleased to see me.

  I pulled up the collar of my jacket and set off at a run along the back of the old superstore. There was no danger of being spotted now. An unkempt ridge of bushes separated me from the base, blocking my view of the guards dragging the corpses away.

  I knew what I should do. Stick to the plan; see it through. But the ache in my back said otherwise. Would it hurt if I headed back to the empty house I’d made a temporary home last night? It was dry, and still in possession of most of its windows. I could make a brew, get some warmth back in my bones. Come back tomorrow. It wasn’t as if the idiots were going anywhere.

  What’s wrong with you, man? Orders is orders.

  Sir, yes sir, et—

  Something hit me in the head as soon as I turned the corner. I fell back, stunned, barely felt the back of my head connecting with the floor.

  I groaned, rolling onto my side, my hand going to my throbbing forehead, brushing already bruised skin.

  Someone grabbed my shoulder, hauling me up as if I were a sack of spuds. I allowed myself to be pulled to my feet, a voice yelling at me to get up.

  I stumbled, my assailant supporting my dead weight from the scruff of my jacket.

  What was it with these idiots and their mistakes?

  I threw my body into him, taking him by surprise. My head met his nose, and I felt a satisfying pop.

  Now we were falling, gravity taking hold. He hit the deck, my full weight upon him, my shoulder planted firmly into his stomach for added effect. And then I was back on my feet, booting him in the side.

  That sudden movement was my undoing. The world spun and I pitched forward, throwing out a hand to break my fall. The barrel of a rifle smacked me in the side of my head. I crashed to the ground and moaned, and this time it wasn’t a ploy. I had no surprise moves left. I was having enough trouble not throwing up my guts.

  A boot thudded into my shoulder, kicking me onto my back. My moan turned into a racking cough, but I didn’t try to get up. There was no point. The man who’d attacked me stood silhouetted against the clouds, rain coming down in sheets over us.

  I spat rainwater and blood out of my mouth as I realised it wasn’t a man at all. She was big, well over six foot, and as solid as she was long, her tightly-cropped hair plastered against her scalp. There was no way of telling if it was light or dark in the rain. Only one thing was obvious—her nose hadn’t been that squashed a moment ago.

  Lying there, the rain in my eyes, I didn’t know what was more intimidating—her furious glower, or the rifle she aimed right at my face.

  I smiled, hoping that the rain would at least wash some of the blood from my teeth.

  “Hello, gorgeous!”

  Yeah, I know, I know—no one bothers with one-liners in real life. So sue me.

  Since when have I played by the rules?

  Do you think this is funny?

  Sir, fuck off, sir.

  CHAPTER THREE

  CURE

  I COULD HAVE kissed Allison when the alarms finally stopped.

  “Thank God for that.”

  The phone on the neurologist’s desk rang almost immediately. She pushed it in my direction.

  “That’ll be for you?”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  I picked up the receiver, glaring at Allison. She laughed, pointing two fingers at me and miming a shot. Putting me out of my misery. It shouldn’t have been funny seeing what had just happened outside.

  “This is Tomas.”

  “Ma’am, I’m pleased to report that the crisis has passed,” Moore responded brusquely on the other end of the line.

  “For now. How long to the next one?”

  “I am doubling patrols, and the tech team are fitting new cameras on weak spots along the perimeter.”

  “Last week you told me that there were no weak spots.”

  “Dr Tomas, my resources are limited. It’s not like I can advertise for more staff.”

  I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “I know.”

  “If you would allow me to make a recce of the surrounding area, we could discover where these low-lives are coming from, how many there are.”

  “No.”

  “Ma’am, three attacks in a week...”

  “We’ve been attacked before.”

  “But never in such quick succession. This has to be the work of a gang. The guns recovered today match
those on Monday.”

  “Are you telling me we have an army at our gates?

  “We many never know, unless we go and look.”

  “I’m not going to repeat myself, chief. No one goes off base. There’s no need. You’ve proved that you can handle anything they throw at us.”

  “Three or four at a time, but if they attack en masse...”

  We were going around in circles. A change of subject was required. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “Eckstein, but not badly, thank God. He’s in the infirmary.”

  “Could have been worse. And the raiders?”

  “No longer a threat. I’ll have a full report with you in an hour.”

  “You do that,” I said, putting down the phone.

  “Do you get the feeling he’s enjoying himself just a little too much?” Allison asked, leaning back in her chair.

  Tension was working its way up my neck, a headache beginning to form. I looked out at the rain lashing against the window.

  “Little boys playing soldiers.”

  “Was he complaining about resources again?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Have you thought about requesting”—she snorted at her own melodrama—“reinforcements?”

  “And make Moore’s role any bigger than it is?”

  Another laugh. I sighed, marshalling my thoughts. The truth of the matter was that the Cabal would be over us in a flash if I so much as suggested that the project was in jeopardy. It was hard enough keeping them at arm’s length at the best of times.

  No, better to keep quiet and see where the next few weeks led. Moore was probably right. The attacks we’d suffered in the past had been opportunistic. A former MoD base was always going to be a hot target, especially in a relatively remote location. Places like this suggested weapons and supplies, even after Operation Motherland and the Americans had cleaned most of them out. And it was obvious that the base was occupied, in a sea of empty fields and derelict housing. No wonder interested parties got cocky from time to time, chancing their arms.

  This felt different. Our defences were being tested, by someone who didn’t care if their men came back dead or alive.

  But we were safe, I was sure of that. Whatever Moore claimed, the Cabal had provided more than enough. Weapons, supplies, even a lorry-load of books and DVDs.

  “All work and no play leads to exhaustion and poor results, Dr Tomas. Remember, you are running a scientific community, not a work camp.”

  Our benevolent masters.

  Enough. I pushed the chair back and rose to my feet, Allison mirroring the action, surprised by my sudden movement.

  “Are we leaving?”

  “I want to check in on Ruth,” I replied, turning to leave the small office, “make sure the attack hasn’t unsettled her.”

  Olive stepped forward from where she had been hovering by the door, my constant shadow, as silent as a ghost until required. Some days I even forgot she was there.

  “Dr Tomas, the morning briefing...”

  I ignored her, opening the door and emerging into the windowless corridor.

  THE CHILDREN’S DORMS were on the top floor of Neighbourhood Three, one storey up from the heads of department. We took the stairs, Allison regaling me with the argument she’d had with Bets last night. I made all the right noises and nodded in what I hoped were all the right places, barely taking in any of the details. I had no problem with relationships among staff members; it was inevitable, living in such proximity. But I didn’t need a blow-by-blow account of their domestic bliss or otherwise. There was a reason my personal quarters were in the east wing of Neighbourhood Two, while the rest of the staff had taken over the west wing. Allison said that all the empty corridors would give her the creeps, knowing that she was alone in a wing at night, but I didn’t mind. I was only there to sleep. Why would I need anyone near?

  It suddenly occurred to me that I had no idea where Olive was barracked. She had to be with the rest in the west wing, but I’d never asked. Better that way. I wasn’t here to make friends.

  What a shame Allison didn’t seem to realise that. I just hoped she wasn’t about to get into how she and Bets had made up.

  “Have you seen Ruth this morning?” I asked as we approached the Dorm corridor, bringing Allison’s attention back to our patient.

  Allison nodded breezily. “I checked in as soon as the alarm sounded. She was fine. She’s always fine, you know that.”

  “I don’t know,” I replied as we approached the door marked with Ruth’s name. “There’s been something about her recently.”

  “Like what?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be worried. Something in her manner.”

  Allison opened the door to the suite and stepped into the small antechamber that preceded Ruth’s actual quarters. Like all of the children’s dorms, the rooms had been converted from old offices, each with an observation area identical to the one we were standing in. Allison lowered her voice, even though Ruth wouldn’t be able to hear a thing. The place was completely soundproof.

  “Her test scores are consistent, her responses exceeding expectations. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

  I stared through the one-way mirror that separated us from the 12-year old girl we were discussing. Allison was right—on paper, nothing had changed, but...

  It was a hunch, nothing more.

  Ruth sat in her stark quarters, cross-legged on the floor, staring up at a television screen set into the wall. A games controller twisted in her hands as she threw the racing car around the circuit on the screen, the soundtrack playing through her headset. Crowds lined the side of the racetrack, waving their pixelated arms above hoardings for long-forgotten soft drinks. It was a world Ruth had never known, one that even I struggled to remember, and yet what could be more normal than a girl sitting in her bedroom playing computer games?

  “Let her know we’re here,” I instructed, and Allison went to the adjoining door, pressing a button on the intercom, and a doorbell chimed. Ruth barely looked away from her screen.

  Allison laughed. “I doubt she can even hear us over those things.”

  She tried again, and this time the girl answered, calling over the intercom.

  “Yes.”

  “Ruth, it’s Dr Tomas and Dr Harwood.”

  “Come in.”

  I nodded at Allison, who entered, holding the door open for me to follow. As always, Ruth’s room was immaculate, a place for everything and everything in its place. My mother would have been proud.

  Ruth was wearing her usual light blue pyjamas, one of the few splashes of colour in the largely white space.

  Allison closed the door behind us, shutting Olive in the observation area. I walked over to Ruth’s small functional desk, pulling out the chair to sit down. The papers on the desk were perfectly ordered in neat piles, the pens lined up in order of colour and size.

  “Good morning, Dr Tomas,” Ruth offered, still engrossed in the game.

  “Good morning, Ruth. How are you today?”

  “I’m fine,” she replied. “How are you?”

  The conversation was hardly what you’d call spontaneous; we said the same thing, day after day, never deviating from the script.

  “Very well, thank you. Are you enjoying your game?” I said, glancing at the screen. Ruth’s car slewed round a tight corner.

  “It’s my favourite,” came the reply.

  You wouldn’t know by looking at her. She was concentrating, but there was no sign she was enjoying the activity. Her face was a passive mask, and she played in total silence at all times. There were seven other subjects, similar in age to Ruth, in similar rooms, and we had allowed them the headsets to communicate when they played their video games. The results hadn’t been what you’d expect from children their age. No shouting or yelling, no grunts of frustration as they misjudged their cars’ speed and crashed into the barriers. Just an indifferent, one-tone commentary of the race, politely praising each other on
their gameplay.

  “Can you pause it, please?” I asked, remembering the tantrum that would have followed whenever my mum had asked me to turn off the Commodore 64 when I was Ruth’s age. Just five minutes longer, please!

  Not Ruth. She complied without question, hitting a button and placing the controller down in front of her, the headset obediently removed. Without a flicker of emotion, she shifted on the floor to face me, every movement controlled and calculated.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Even as she looked at me, I could hear what Olive had said about Ruth the previous day.

  Such a shame, really. She could be quite pretty, if it wasn’t for... well, you know...

  For the fact she was a subject in ongoing medical research, restricted most of the time to these four walls. I had told Olive what I thought of her comments, that in this day and age, after everything that had happened, surely it didn’t matter if someone was pretty or not. Why were we still using looks as a yardstick, what difference did it make?

  Olive had pouted those full, painted lips of hers and returned to her clipboard.

  It was true, Ruth was a striking child. Her features were symmetrical and smooth, her eyes a brilliant, almost breathtaking shade of blue. She was a little underweight for her age and height, her cheekbones pronounced without being gaunt, but held herself in perfect posture at all times, her back ramrod straight. Her pallor was, understandably, that of someone who spent too much time inside, although she regularly took part in Dr Heslin’s PE sessions out on the hard courts behind Neighbourhood Two. I couldn’t say she enjoyed them, as none of the children seemed to enjoy anything. They didn’t complain or moan—quite the opposite—but attacked every task, from studies to pastimes, as jobs that needed to be completed as quickly and efficiently as possible.

  “She’s a machine,” Olive had decreed on another self-opinionated occasion. “A nice enough kid, but... unsettling, you know?” When I’d ignored her, my assistant had simply seen it as carte blanche to continue. “It would help if she had some hair. Even eyebrows would be an improvement. You could at least give the poor child a scarf to wear.”