by Cavan Scott
“I wouldn’t say that.”
There were footsteps from the hall outside. Brennan was on her way. Beck’s posture changed. She’d started to relax for bit, there. Now it was back to business. She drained the last dregs from the mug and placed it on the side of the table, standing up straight, her arms behind her back.
Chat time was over.
Brennan walked in, Fenton beside her, strutted along like a ’90s Brit-Rocker. I wasn’t looking forward to having him by my side. Beck I could trust, at least to handle herself in case we got in trouble. When we got in trouble. Fenton, well, one glance told you that he was full of it. A legend in his own mind. Shame his body didn’t match up. As scrawny as a smackhead, with a pock-marked, ratty face. And the stink. Why didn’t Brennan insist that he take a shower? Perhaps they didn’t notice anymore. Live with shit long enough and you no longer smell it.
“Did you enjoy the coffee?” Brennan asked, coming to a stop in front of me.
“From her own stash,” Fenton pointed out, wanting me to be impressed.
I ignored him, replying directly to Brennan instead. “Best brew I’ve had for years. Thanks. For everything.”
“The least we could do,” the woman said, stepping forward to look at the papers on the desk, “seeing that you’re going to get us into... what did you say it was called?”
“Abbey Wood.”
“Sounds like a retirement home,” said Fenton, sneering.
I brought the largest sheet of paper to the top of the pile. “I don’t know about that, but if you’re looking to build a nest, you could ask for a lot worse.”
I’d drawn a rough map of the complex, half from memory and half from my observations that morning.
“As I said, the base is made up of four main Neighbourhoods—”
Brennan interrupted immediately. “Neighbourhoods?”
I had to give him that one.
“Sorry—MoD speak. Four main buildings, each with four or more wings. Back in the day, each building corresponded to a different service.” I pointed out each building as I ran through the list. “Navy, Army, Air Force and so on. Each had accommodation, offices, cafés...” I shot a look at Fenton. “Shower blocks. The whole kit and caboodle. Moat on one side, fencing on the other.”
“Which they’ve added to since,” cut in Beck.
I nodded. “From what I saw yesterday, the entire campus has been surrounded by a secondary perimeter fence, topped with razor-wire.” I tapped on the former entrance to the base. “The road in here has been barricaded, new gates constructed, and subsequently clad with metal plates.”
“Iron sheeting,” Brennan confirmed.
“Have you tried to take them?”
“We have a van parked round the side of the store,” Fenton revealed. “We were going to drive through the gates, you know, like a battering ram.”
“But?”
“But we haven’t enough fuel,” Brennan admitted.
“We have a few canisters of gas for the generator,” added Fenton, “but not enough to get her started.”
“So, scratch that,” I concluded.
“That won’t be a problem though, will it?” Beck asked. “You said you can get us in.”
“Not a problem at all,” I assured her. “So far you’ve attacked the potential weak points, yes?” I put my finger on the location of today’s failed attempt. “Here—”
“And here and here,” Brennan said, pointing.
I nodded, feigning appreciation. “All good spots, but you’re missing a trick. It’s not your fault, of course. You weren’t to know.”
“To know what?” Beck asked, frustration creeping into her voice.
“About the tunnels.”
Brennan’s eyes lit up. “Under the buildings.”
I gave her a conspiratorial grin. “This is an MoD base. Tunnels, bunkers. You name it, it’s under there. There are storerooms full of enough dried rations to survive a nuclear war. Weapons, vehicles. Probably even fuel.”
I pointed out of the window, towards the tall white roofs in the distance. “What you can see is only the tip of the iceberg.”
Brennan was looking hungrily at my maps now. “That’s how we get in? The tunnels?”
I picked up a pencil. “The tunnels were built to allow movement between Neighbourhoods in case of emergency—but they also offered escape.”
I pulled the paper towards me and drew a cross on a blank space above the moat. “This is old farmland, not worth much back then, although the farmer received a healthy subsidy from the Ministry of Defence.”
“Because of the tunnels?” Beck asked.
“There was a hidden entrance on his land,” I confirmed. “I don’t think it was ever used, but it’s there. And if it could let people out...”
“...it can also let people in,” Brennan said.
“I’m not saying it’ll be easy. They’ll be deadlocks and security systems.”
“But you can get past them.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem if we work together. How many guns do you have?”
Beck looked to her boss, cautious. Brennan nodded.
“About forty rifles. More handguns; most of us are armed.”
I whistled, actually impressed. “Why haven’t you just stormed the place?”
“I didn’t say we had the ammo to match,” Beck admitted.
“Ah, okay.” That wasn’t so good. “Have any explosives?”
Fenton snorted. “You think those gates would still be standing if we did?”
I tapped the end of the pencil against my teeth and flashed Fenton my brightest smile.
“Then I better take you shopping!”
THE EVENING WAS drawing in as I led my new allies back across the car park towards the old Woolworths.
“What’s this about?” Fenton whined.
“You’ll see,” I said, bringing them to a door on the side of the building, a door that Beck had marched me past without so much as a second glance that morning.
Keep them on their toes, soldier. Knowledge is power.
I stopped at the door and tried it. It wouldn’t budge.
“Locked,” Beck concluded.
“Stuck,” I corrected her, putting my shoulder to it. The door burst open, and I fished a flashlight out my jacket pocket.
They followed me into the building, past an old reception and into a corridor. I paused to listen, just to make sure.
There was nothing, bar the scampering of tiny paws along ancient lino.
“This way,” I said, counting office doors as we continued. One, two, three—and here we were. Another door, this one opening easily enough. I flashed the torch inside, revealing a narrow closet.
“A cleaner’s cupboard?” Beck commented.
I glanced back at the tall woman. “It’s amazing what you can hide in cleaning cupboards.”
Passing my torch to Brennan, I crouched down beside a set of shelves, grabbing the battered holdall I’d stashed at daybreak.
“I didn’t want to lug this up to the room,” I explained, carefully lifting it onto the floor.
“Or mention it when we found you?” Beck pointed out.
“Neither of us were that chatty this morning. We hadn’t even gone for a coffee yet.”
I opened the zip. Brennan aimed the light into the bag.
“Damn.”
That was the reaction I wanted.
Fenton was more obvious. “Explosives!” he grunted, like a kid who’d just found a box of sherbet Dib-Dabs. There was no way I was letting him near this lot.
“Just a little C-4 I’ve picked up on my travels. Not a lot, but enough for what we’ll need. Oh, and then there’s these.”
I reached towards the back of the shelf and pulled aside the broken-up cardboard box I’d use to cover the last of my cache. Carefully, I pulled out the box of six remote grenades.
“Now, who wants to mount an invasion?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
CURE
“JASMINE? JASMINE, WAIT up.”
I sighed and stopped as running footsteps approached from behind.
“Dr Tomas,” Olive warned quietly beside me. “We still have five more subjects to—”
I silenced her with a look and turned to greet Allison.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.
I tried to play the innocent. “I’m just checking in on Ops, and then will see to the children. Everything—”
Allison didn’t let me finish. “Did you really order Moore to lock us up?”
“That’s... not exactly what’s happening.”
“Isn’t it? The medical staff has just been marched back to their quarters by armed guards. People are scared here. It’s like some kind of coup. What’s next—firing squads?”
I raised hands, trying to calm her down. “You’re being hysterical—”
Allison jabbed a finger at me, stepping far too close.
“Don’t give me that. I’ve just been threatened, Jas. Physically threatened.”
I took a step back, if only to avoid having an eye poked out by an angry fingernail. “Threatened? By who?”
“I didn’t stop to ask his name; one of your stormtroopers.”
“Hysterical and melodramatic,” muttered Olive, but if Allison had heard her, she didn’t rise to it. Good job; she was furious enough as it was.
“Tell me what happened?” I asked, keeping my voice level.
“I was checking on David, making sure he was secure, and he just barged in.”
“He?”
“One of Moore’s lot, telling me that I had to go back to my quarters. I told him I was busy, and he tried to grab my arm. Jasmine, he had a gun.”
There was little I could say to make her understand. “Allison, what with the attacks and—”
But there was no stopping her. “This wasn’t in the observation area, Jas. We were in David’s room, right in front of him.”
I cocked my head, intrigued. “How did he react?”
The question derailed Allison for a moment.
“What?”
“David,” I prompted. “How did he cope with the situation?”
Allison shook her head, running a frustrated hand through her hair. “The same as normal... I don’t know. He just took it in his stride.”
I nodded, making a mental note. David was one of the younger subjects, only eight years old. His IQ tests were off the scale, even compared with the others, but he kept himself to himself, barely uttering a word.
“But it shouldn’t have happened, Jasmine. You get that, don’t you?”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “Of course I get it, but Allison, Samuel was murdered.”
“I know. But—”
No. Now it was time for me to talk. “Someone killed him. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a mistake. It was planned, premeditated. Someone wanted him dead.”
Allison just stood there, stunned by the force of my words. When she spoke again, her voice was small, deflated.
“Someone in the base.”
“That’s what I have to assume, until we find evidence to the contrary. Allison, I don’t want to do any of this, but I’m having to make it up as I go along. None of this is in the instruction manual.”
The corners of her mouth tucked up. Not much, but it was a start. “There’s a manual? You kept that quiet.”
I returned the gesture. “I’m sorry that people are scared. And I’m sorry if Moore’s team are getting carried away; I’ll have a word. But trust me, no one is getting locked in, unless they want to themselves.”
“And what about the guards? Once we’re all safely tucked up, will they be confined to quarters?”
She had me there. “Not all them. We need to make sure everyone—”
“—stays where you want them.”
“Yes.”
Allison crossed her arms. “I see.”
“I’m sorry,” I added, somewhat redundantly.
“It’s fine,” Allison replied, giving a weak approximation of a smile. “You have to do what you think best.”
“I do,” I insisted. “For the children. For all of us.”
“I better get on, then,” she said, turning. “But you will have a word with Moore?”
I promised I would.
“You know what he’s like.”
Better than most.
I watched Allison walk away, still hugging herself.
This was madness, all of it. Talking of which...
“How long since I took my meds?” I asked Olive.
Down the corridor, Allison stopped, looking over her shoulder. “What was that?”
I waved her away. “Nothing. Don’t worry.”
She nodded, still looking hurt, and carried on.
The nearest thing I had to a friend on this base.
Olive was checking her clipboard. Of course she was. “Not since this morning,” she replied, answering my earlier question. “You’re overdue.”
I nodded, pulling the bottle out of my pocket. Damn. I’d forgotten to ask for more, what with everything that was going on. Still, I had enough to last until tomorrow, at least.
The last thing I needed was an episode. Someone had to keep their head around here. I unscrewed the lid and popped a capsule into my mouth, swallowing.
“Come on, then,” I said, walking on towards the security hub.
“Dr Tomas, should I return to my quarters?” Olive asked, sounding terrified at the thought of me being alone for a second.
“I’m sure you won’t mind. You’ve probably got some spreadsheets to play with, or whatever it is you do in your spare time.”
She laughed. “Spare time? Doctor, looking after you is a full-time job, twenty-four-seven.”
“Sorry to be such a handful.”
“No need, I enjoy my work.”
How the hell could she remain so cheerful? It wasn’t normal. Perhaps Olive was the exception to the rule. Perhaps her quarters should be locked. And bolted.
And then set on fire.
I smiled to myself as I reached the hub door and swiped my ID card over the reader. The door clicked and I walked into Moore’s domain, happy to see that he was off playing Hitler somewhere else. The operation room was on the other side of the open plan office, which Moore’s team used as a rec room, chairs and coffee tables dotted around.
I slipped inside Ops, glancing up at the wall of monitors, rotating through camera feeds from around the complex. Only the top eight screens—the feeds from the children’s dorms—were static. That was odd.
Someone had attached a scrap of masking tape beneath each screen, scrawled with the children’s names:
Ruth. David. Matthew. Samuel. Michele. Katy. Adam. Dawn.
It was a strangely personal touch.
I watched the screens for a moment. Some of the subjects were reading, some were playing on their games consoles. Ruth was sitting at her desk, building a model from LEGO. All so normal, save for the near identical clothes and lack of hair. Children without a care in the world. Did they even realise how important they were?
How could they?
My eyes lingered on the picture of Samuel’s empty room, the lights still shining but no one home.
You must think we’re made of money, my mum echoed in my head. Turn your lights off when you go out. It was like the Blackpool illuminations in this house this morning!
“Dr Tomas?”
Olive’s gentle prompt snapped me back to the present. I looked around in shock, suddenly aware of my surroundings again.
“Sorry. Miles away. Now, where are we?” I pulled out the operator’s chair and sat down in front of a PC on the desk. A wiggle of the mouse and its screen sprung to life, a box appearing and requesting a password. I typed my own, which could access any computer on the base.
Incorrect Password.
Please try again.
I blinked at the message. Maybe I’d typed it wrong.
I tried again, the chun
ky keyboard clattering.
Incorrect Password.
Please try again.
“This can’t be right.” One more failed attempt and I’d need a network administrator. I frowned at my hands, as if it was their fault.
“Perhaps you’re using an old one,” Olive suggested, making me want to throw the keyboard at her stupid smug face. Of course I wasn’t. I knew my password. I’d only changed it last week.
I tried again. One last chance.
Incorrect Password.
Please contact the administrator.
I slammed my fists down on the desk, and then jumped as a voice spoke behind me.
“Excuse me, but what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
KILL
NOW EVERYONE HAD torches, although I’d told them to kill the lights as soon as we crept out into the field.
“I could break my neck,” complained Fenton.
Only if there was a God...
“We don’t want to advertise our presence,” I suggested, pushing through waist-high grass. “There’s no way of knowing who’s watching—so keep your voices down for that matter. Sound travels after dark.”
The night air was cold, but thankfully dry at last, although the mud beneath our boots squelched with every step. In the distance a fox screamed. I’d always hated that noise. When I was a kid I’d stayed entire summers with my Gran, staying in the attic of her cottage. You wouldn’t believe the horrors I’d imagined when one of those bastards started up in the middle of the night.
“It’s okay, pet. Just a vixen.” Show no weakness, soldier. You’ve nothing to fear.
“Yes, Gran.” Sir, yes, sir. Nothing to fear but fear itself.
And the bullets, and the mines, and the gas, and—
I had the feeling there would be more screams before the night was out.
We kept moving on, everyone heeding my words and shutting the fuck up. Even Fenton. Brennan was on my heels, leading the rest of her pack; Beck keeping some distance between her and Fenton, and behind him, the two goons who had grabbed me that morning. The man-mountain to the left was called Garret, and his hulk of a partner Curtis. Neither were what you’d call chatty, but they weren’t here for conversation. Garret had a fireman’s axe strapped between his monstrous shoulders, while Curtis was lugging a portable battering ram on his back. The thing must have weighed twenty kilos. Say this for Brennan, the armoury she’d salvaged and jury-rigged was impressive, and her people weren’t the idiots I’d written off this morning. Inexperienced, yes, but they would come good, given the right orders.
