Children of the Cull

by Cavan Scott

  She looked down at Samuel and the tears welled again. “Go on,” she said. “Please.”

  I knew that I should reach out, to touch her arm, even pull her into a hug, but also knew she wouldn’t thank me. I restarted the recorder.

  “The subject’s features show signs of risus sardonicus, the lips drawn back into a rictus grimace.”

  “Tetanus,” Ed cut in.

  This time I didn’t bother to stop the recorder. “I’m sorry?”

  “I’ve seen it before, in cases of tetanus.” He looked embarrassed, realising that he was telling me things I already knew. He was only trying to help.

  “It would explain his back,” Allison pointed out, quietly. She coughed, raising her voice for the benefit of the recorder. “Samuel’s body has pulled into a bridge position, his spine arching.”

  “Opisthotonus,” I agreed. “Caused by severe, and usually erratic, muscular contractions.” I could see where they were going—both phenomena were classic symptoms of tetanus—but I had my doubts. Still, it was better to cover all bases. “Had Samuel cut or scratched himself recently?”

  Ed shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  I turned to Allison. “And you said he seemed in good spirits last night?”

  “As far as he ever did; as any of them do.”

  “No signs of a fever? Stiffness of the jaw?”

  “He didn’t complain of anything.”

  I turned back to the body. “If it was tetanus, you’d expect a four-day incubation period at least, and we’d have seen the signs. And that’s with a normal patient. With Samuel? It’s impossible. And to accelerate so quickly...”

  I touched the boy’s throat, feeling the bunched muscles beneath the skin. They were like rock.

  “Death appears to have been caused by asphyxia, the muscles in his neck effectively crushing the trachea. Time of death is difficult to place, although I would estimate that it has been no more than two or three hours.”

  Behind me, Allison nodded. “Rigor mortis would have set in immediately.”

  I pointed at a pool of vomit beside the bed. “And there’s this...”

  Samuel had been sick during his convulsions, rolling into the mess as he’d thrashed about. There were traces on the side of his face—but the vomit on the floor hadn’t completely dried, glinting in the light from the ceiling lamps.

  “But if it isn’t tetanus?” Ed asked.

  Before I could answer, the door was thrown open, Des Moore bursting in without invite.

  “Good God.”

  So much for keeping everyone out.

  The security chief rubbed the back of his thick neck. “I came as soon as I heard. Do we know what happened?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine. Shut the door, will you?” If Moore was here, I might as well use him. The man had been originally assigned by the Cabal themselves. Soon after he’d arrived in Bristol, we’d got drunk together, one of the last times I allowed my guard to drop. He told me how he’d been a teenager at the time of the Cull, how he’d moved from city to city as the world fell apart, joined various militia. It had been a hard life.

  There was something in his eyes when he spoke of the past, a loss I recognised... Before I knew what I was doing, I’d leant forward and kissed him. We never told anyone about that night. Over the years, mutual embarrassment had given way to passive-aggressive sniping on both sides, but I knew I could rely on him when push came to shove—like now.

  “Chief, I need you to find out exactly what Samuel was fed over the last week.”

  “I can do that,” Ed offered, but I cut him dead.

  “No, it’s better that Chief Moore handles this. Get to the kitchens, quarantine any ingredients used in Samuel’s meals, and check the trash, too. They may have been thrown away.”

  “What may have been thrown away?” Allison asked, touching my arm. “You’re not suggesting that Samuel was poisoned?”

  I ignored her. “Ed, Allison—check if any of the other subjects are exhibiting symptoms. Tightness of the jaw. Difficulty breathing. I’ll perform the autopsy on Samuel myself.” I looked down at the pool of vomit beside the body. “We’ll need a sample of that too, to see what he ingested.”

  Allison was running her hands through her hair, not wanting to believe what she was hearing.

  “Did you get all that?” I asked, switching off the voice recorder. “Allison?”

  She nodded, not looking sure at all. “Yes, got it. Sorry.” She dithered for a moment, before ushering Ed out of the room. “You heard the lady. Let’s go.”

  Moore also turned to leave, but I stopped him. “Des, we need to check the storerooms too, specifically any poisons we use for pest control.”

  His scowled, the dark skin between his brows forming deep furrows. “You mean like rat poison?”

  “I mean exactly like rat poison.” I looked down at Samuel’s body. “Especially anything containing strychnine.”

  FIVE HOURS LATER and the prospect of a dreamless night of sleep had never seemed so appealing.

  I sat in my office, staring across the complex. The storm had passed, although the clouds were threatening a repeat performance any minute.

  The base was eerily quiet—not that it was ever what you’d call bustling. A complex built for thousands, now home to about sixty. It must have been impressive when it was first opened, with its winding pathways and immaculate gardens, like a university campus. Most of the green spaces were overgrown now, although some were maintained by staff keen to stave off boredom when they weren’t on duty. There were vegetable plots, of course, and a surprisingly healthy orchard near Neighbourhood Three; but some of the gardens were actually quite stunning. Allison and Bets maintained one of the plots, growing roses of all things. It turned out that Allison had quite the green fingers. She’d even asked me if I wanted to join them.

  I’d killed every plant I’d ever owned, including a potted cactus. Who kills cactuses, of all things? They’re like cockroaches.

  Not that it made much sense to me, anyway. Growing flowers in the midst of all this. I looked up to the horizon, seeing the derelict houses across what was once a busy ring road. Shops, schools, even a sports centre... there would have been people everywhere.

  Sometimes I imagined them all. Children hanging around the car park when they should be heading home. Trains thundering past on their way to London, cars navigating seemingly endless roundabouts, shouts from the football fields beside the sports-centre, a plane flying overhead...

  It made me smile and ache at the same time. I would have hated it. Weekends traipsing around out-of-town shopping centres. No, thanks. But it still hurt.

  Most of the buildings in the base were empty now, although we maintained some of the amenities. From what I’ve read, Abbey Wood had four restaurants when it first opened—the largest now acted as our staff canteen here in Neighbourhood Three. There were hairdressers, a gym, tennis courts and a five-a-side football pitch, which I could see from my office window. We even had our own Sunday league; technicians vs medical vs security and so on. I’d never made it to a match, but had spent many a long hour watching the teams practise.

  The puddle-strewn pitches were empty now; not because of the weather, more the threat of being shot during the second half.

  Raids stop play.

  “Dr Tomas, should we call a general meeting?”

  I jumped, looking up to see Olive at the door, clipboard in hand. I hadn’t heard her come in.

  “How long have you been there?”

  She gave me what she obviously thought was a kind smile. Poor Dr Tomas, lost in thought, cracking under pressure. Losing control.

  And all the time Olive stood in her perfect little dress, with her perfect hair and perfect make-up. Where did she even find lipstick anyway?

  “It’s just that people are starting to talk...”

  “I bet they are.”

  Olive took a tentative step forward. “There’s talk of poisoning. Rumours are
already spreading.” She glanced at her clipboard. “We should clear the rest of the day, hold a town hall, in the atrium maybe.”

  The look on my face told her what I thought of that suggestion.

  “We need to something,” she insisted. “The last thing we want is people putting two and two together and making five. You know how quickly gossip spreads around this place. Only last week, Nurse Tyler told me—”

  “Yes, yes,” I said, raising a hand to stop her mid-flow. “You’re right, we have to do something.”

  Olive beamed. “Excellent. Shall we say five o’clock, then?”

  “Let’s say nothing, yet.” She went to argue, so I shut her down quickly. “I want to have all the facts at my disposal before we do anything. Some people...”—I let that hang in the air for a moment—“are going to gossip come what may.”

  There was a knock at the door and I felt a rush of gratitude for whoever it was.

  The door opened and Des Moore entered. I felt my heart sink a little bit, but seized the moment all the same.

  “Chief, please, come in.” This was going to be tough, but anything was better than hearing my assistant drone on. “Thank you, Olive, that will be all for now.”

  She left with a face like several thunderstorms rolled into one. Chief Moore shut the door behind him.

  I let out a sigh, and rubbed my temples. My long-awaited headache was gaining ground.

  “Are you all right, doctor?” Moore asked as he strode over to my desk. I nodded, motioning for him to sit.

  “It’s been quite a day, one way or another.”

  “And it’s not over yet.”

  Ain’t that the truth. Well, there was no preventing the inevitable.

  “Any luck with the discs?” I asked.

  The subjects’ rooms were all fitted with closed-circuit TV, the feeds automatically burned to recordable DVDs. A dreadful invasion of privacy, but necessary to the project.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “They’re still missing?”

  “Not just Samuel’s; the entire floor.”

  “Every disc? But that’s—”

  “Impossible, yes. I just don’t understand it. They would have been swapped for the new batch at 7am, but the cases are empty.”

  “The computer back up? All footage is stored on the servers for twenty-four hours. It must be there.”

  “Wiped.”

  “What?”

  “It could only have been done by one of the technicians.”

  “Have you asked them?”

  “I spoke to Lam Chen—he was the one who showed me the files, or rather the lack of them.”

  “And you can trust him?”

  “I’ve had no reason not to.”

  “Up to now.”

  I leant back in my chair, letting my head fall back to gaze up at the ceiling tiles.

  The last thing Samuel had ever seen.

  For the first time in years I could kill for a drink—which in present company might not be wise.

  “Do we know when he was poisoned?” Moore asked bluntly. There was no question of it now.

  I leant forward on the desk. “Around 5am, as far as I can tell. As suspected, there are traces of strychnine in both his stomach and the vomit we found on the floor.”

  Moore balled his fists on the arm of the chair. “I just wish we knew it was from the stores.”

  “It has to be, you said that it looked like there was rat poison missing—”

  “As far as I can tell, but it turns out that our caretaker is somewhat lax when it comes to stock-taking—”

  “We have no way of knowing for sure?”

  Moore glowered as he shook his head. Like Olive, the chief prided himself on running a tight ship. Today we were discovering corners being cut across the base, left, right and centre.

  “How much had he been given?”

  I glanced down at the freshly written report on my desk. I could just imagine the ripples this would cause when it arrived in Germany.

  “More than enough. A lethal dose for an average adult is as little as 100 milligrams. I found traces of twice that amount. The effects would have been near enough instantaneous, certainly no later than ten minutes.”

  “So it couldn’t have been in his evening meal?”

  “Not in the concentration required. It must have been swallowed in the earlier hours.”

  “But there was no sign of a struggle?”

  “As if he’d been force-fed the poison? Not that I could find. No skin under the fingernails. No lesions or bruising.”

  “So someone went into his quarters at around half-four in the morning, gave him the poison, without excessive force, and then left him to die?”

  “Or watched it happen.”

  It was a thought I’d avoided vocalising until now.

  “But why Samuel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And why now?”

  “Same answer.” Another thought occurred to me, this one more encouraging. “Could we... fingerprint the door handles, see who’s been in and out of the room?”

  “Who hasn’t, over the last six hours?” Moore pointed out. “You. Me. Half the medical team.”

  “What about the card readers? At that time of the morning, you’d have to use ID to get near the children.”

  Des Moore’s stared at me, and looked dismayed. He sprung from his chair. “I’ll check the logs. That could be just what we’re looking for.”

  He started for the door without permission to leave, keen to follow up any line of enquiry after so many dead ends.

  “One more thing, chief,” I said.

  He stopped, turning back to me. “I’m sorry, I should have asked—”

  I waved the apology away, dreading the words that were about to come out of my mouth. “Confine all the staff to their quarters.”

  His eyes went wide. “Are you sure?”

  I held his gaze. “What alternative do we have? Could someone have broken into the base to poison Samuel?”

  “In theory, yes, but—”

  I raised my eyebrows, and he finally relented.

  “It’s unlikely.”

  “Then we’re probably looking at an insider. Until we’ve at least narrowed down the suspects, I can’t take any risks. You, me, two guards you can trust. That’s all. Everyone else is confined to barracks as of this moment.”

  “But, the subjects...”

  “I’ll looked after them myself. I can cope with eight children—” I stopped myself. Seven, now.

  “The staff aren’t going to like it.”

  I gave him a look that made it clear the conversation was at an end. “They’re not supposed to.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  KILL

  “HERE,” SAID BECK, thrusting a chipped mug at me.

  “What is it?” I asked, eying her with suspicion.

  “What does it smell like?”

  Tentatively I raised the mug to my nose and took a sniff. My eyes widened, the bruise on my forehead twinging.

  “You’re kidding me? Coffee?”

  “Or as near as dammit,” said Beck, taking a sip from her own blue-and-white-checked mug.

  “Where did you get it? Actually, no. I don’t care. Thank you.”

  I took a sip, the hot liquid burning my lips. The bitter taste washed over my tongue. It had been a long time since I tasted coffee. I could barely remember if this was good or bad—but it was welcome.

  To be honest, while my introduction to Brennan’s gang had been less than welcoming, things had rapidly improved. They’d given me a room among the old offices to change—even providing some reasonably clean clothes and, miracle of miracles, showed me where they had installed a makeshift shower in the corner of the storeroom downstairs. It was cold, of course, using rainwater they’d collected in giant butts on the roof, but alongside a bar of gritty chemical-smelling soap, I wasn’t complaining. It was also far from private, what little remained of my dignity protected by loose plast
ic sheeting draped around some old clothes horses, but, again, I barely gave a fuck. So, I was washing under the gaze of curious gang members nearby. What did it matter? I was clean, properly clean for the first time in months.

  Who would have thought I’d care?

  Certainly not me.

  “How’s the nose?” I asked Beck, taking another swig of the coffee.

  She shrugged, although it had to hurt. It had been set—to a fashion—beneath a long plaster, but the bruises around her eyes were obvious.

  I almost felt sorry.

  “How’s the head?” she responded.

  “Still as thick as ever.”

  She almost smiled.

  “So, how long have you been with Brennan?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Quite some time, then.”

  “Does it matter?”

  Small talk wasn’t her thing. I got that. Even appreciated it. But she’d been the one to offer the java-infused olive branch.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said, finishing the cup.

  “No problem.”

  Why was she even here? I looked at my watch, looking past the cracked face. It still worked, that was all that mattered. Besides, it had been a present from Jasmine. It was the nearest thing I had to a treasure.

  “Brennan’s on her way,” Beck said, assuming I was getting twitchy. “She had things to attend do.”

  “She’s the boss,” I said, putting the mug on top of the papers I’d carefully laid out on the table beside us. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What about you?” Beck asked, surprising me with the question.

  “What about me?”

  She took another sip. “How long have you been a merc?”

  I was tempted to say ‘long enough.’

  “Since a little after the Cull. A lifetime.”

  “And before?”

  I grinned, mocking a yank accent. “That’s classified, ma’am.”

  This time she did actually smile, showing a row of yellowed teeth. “Special forces?”

  “Something like that. Who trained you?”

  “I was brought up on the streets. Can’t remember much about life before.”

  “Don’t know what you’re missing, eh?”