by Matt Stark
Peter glanced at Suzie, who was sitting rigid in the passenger seat of his Jag – her eyes fixed on the road ahead like she was willing them to go faster. He knew she blamed herself for what had happened to her daughter. What mother wouldn’t? She was supposed to have been there for her – protect her from maniacs like Glaser. But she’d failed.
Peter looked back to the road – taking a left onto Archway Road. The traffic was heavy heading into town but light heading out. There should be there in ten minutes or less. Peter’s head was aching and his throat felt dry. He needed a drink; his hand itched to take the silver flask from his jacket pocket and take a big slug of the Tobermory inside. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not with Suzie next to him and not with what lay ahead. He would need all his wits about him if he were to get everybody through it unscathed.
He drove under Archway Bridge.
He guessed Craig staged Lucy’s death because he knew Sam would take some convincing to betray Peter and join New Dawn. And Craig had kidnapped Lucy and taken her to the JIS safe house. Peter winced. Craig must have had a good laugh at that – thinking Peter would never think of looking in his own safe house.
But he hadn’t counted on Sam’s contacting Lucy telepathically. When that happened Craig must have decided he had to kill Lucy. Victory over the norms was more important to him than any one person – even Sam’s daughter. And if they were to win they’d need Sam.
Finding Lucy had been luck – blind luck. Brian had picked up a call from Glaser to his henchman – telling him to take Lucy to the safe house in Highgate. Glaser had sounded rushed, Brian said. So maybe that was made him talk so carelessly over the airwaves. Whatever the reason, as soon as Peter heard he’d contacted Suzie, and less than ten minutes later here they were. He only hoped they weren’t too late. Because the words he’d heard Glaser speak had made him want to reach for his Tobermory more than each of the New Dawn attacks. Bury her, he’d said.
Peter glanced at Suzie. She was pulling at her left earlobe – sticking in the nails until they drew blood. She was holding up better than Peter had expected. But she was still a liability on this situation, and looking at Suzie’s tight features and glazed eyes Peter was beginning to regret bringing her.
They were passing Highgate Tube Station now. Peter tensed and from the corner of his eye saw Suzie edge forward in her seat. He wanted to tell her to stay in the car at least for a few minutes while he checked out the house. But he knew there was no way she’d agree to that – and asking her would just risk destabilizing her.
He pulled the Jag to a dead stop outside Number 322 and jumped out. Suzie was out before him. He saw the smashed front window and grabbed Suzie’s arm.
“Let’s go around back,” he said.
There was no point in walking straight into a bullet if they could avoid it. The house had an alley running alongside it with a wooden gate blocking it off. There would be a small garden at the back with another exit – which might have made a safer entry point – but it would take too long to reach it now. If Craig really had buried Lucy they had to get into that house right now.
They both climbed over the alley gate and hustled down the narrow alley in silence – both, Peter was sure, praying that it wasn’t too late.
***
Sam was still digging like a maniac. Craig had grabbed another shovel and joined him, while Jean watched from the hole’s edge with saucer eyes. The hole was two feet deep now. Thankfully the black dirt came away easily. Sam and Craig heaved great spadefuls out of the ground and threw them over their shoulders at a breakneck pace. But it wasn’t fast enough for Sam.
I’m coming, Lucy. I’m coming, he sent back to her, praying he would be in time.
Two long minutes later Sam’s spade hit something hard and hollow. He glanced at Craig, and they both fell to their knees digging the remaining layer of dirt off with their hands, to reveal a five-foot-long pine coffin.
Hold on, darling, sent Sam. We’ll have you out of there in a minute.
Lucy’s continued silence sent the pain in Sam’s chest into overdrive. Together he and Craig hauled the coffin out of the hole. Sam’s heart hammered in his chest as Craig and he stuck the blades of their shovels underneath the coffin lid and prised it off. He’d been ready to drag Lucy from the coffin, but when the lid fell away Lucy’s ghostly white face and glazed doll eyes froze him to the spot.
As his eyes fixed on her dead stare the pain from Sam’s chest shot to his neck and gripped his throat like a vice. He was too late. But as the thought hit him he was already pulling Lucy’s limp body from the coffin. He laid her on the ground and put his ear to her mouth, while his clammy hand felt for her carotid. Maybe – just maybe there was a chance. He forced himself to stay still for the few seconds it took to know she wasn’t breathing, and her heart had stopped. When he was sure, the pain in his neck ramped up until he thought he was having a heart attack. He stared at Lucy’s ghostly white face. He should be trying to resuscitate her, while there was still a chance. Her brain had been starved of oxygen but she’d been communicating with him until a few minutes ago. So there was still a chance if he took action now. But he couldn’t move.
Craig was pulling at his shoulder. “Sam, let me help.”
His voice snapped Sam back from the brink. Cursing himself he put his mouth over Lucy’s cold lips and blew. If she died because he’d been too overwhelmed to act he would never forgive himself.
As Sam blew he turned his head to one side and saw her chest rise. He took another breath while it was falling then blew again, making sure to keep a good seal. She had some oxygen in her blood, now he had to get it to her brain. He got on his knees alongside her, placed the heel of his right hand on the lower third of her sternum, and the left one over that, straightened his arms and pumped – short, sharp and fast. One one thousand, two two thousand… His heart raced and sweat, that had nothing to do with exertion, streamed down his face. When he reached fifteen he stopped. His heart was pumping loud in his ears, and the pain in his neck threatening to asphyxiate him.
He shoved a shaky finger on Lucy’s neck as he bent forward and listened for a breath. Nothing. The clock was ticking. Her brain had already gone minutes without oxygen. His CPR would oxygenate her blood a little but not enough to stop irreversible brain damage. She had to breathe for herself soon or she’d never breathe again.
His eyes burning, he repeated the process – blowing air into her lungs and pushing down on her chest to pump it around her body. Lucy’s head fell to one side each time Sam let go of her mouth and her body jerked with each compression. But otherwise she lay motionless. As each second passed the pain in Sam’s neck ramped up another notch.
By the tenth cycle his arms were aching, and his head throbbing. He was vaguely aware Craig and Jean had started to whisper to each other. They thought it was all over. They were just wondering how long they should let him go on before they pulled him off.
He sealed his mouth over Lucy’s now dark blue lips and blew in hard. He could not let his daughter die like this. The hand on his shoulder came after another five cycles – later than he’d expected.
“She’s gone,” said Craig.
Sam froze in the middle of a chest compression. Craig was right. He’d known Lucy was dead ten minutes ago, but hadn’t been able to stop himself. Craig’s voice had given him permission. His hands slipped off Lucy’s chest, and he sat back, tears streaming down his face – holding his hands out either side of him like he was asking for God’s forgiveness. Then he fell forward again and grabbed Lucy’s body, pulling it to his chest and squeezing hard. He knelt with her in his arms, sobbing and rocking until Craig and Jean pulled them apart. All he could think was that he’d lost his daughter for the second time today.
“She’s gone,” said Craig.
Craig and Jean stood next to the hole Sam had dragged Lucy’s body from a few moments ago. She lay on the lip where she’d fallen from Sam’s arms.
“We have to save the others,�
�� said Craig.
Sam clenched his jaw. Why couldn’t Craig leave him to his grief? He stood up – full of unfocussed rage.
“What?”
“We need to break the post-humans out of Vauxhall Cross.”
“You can do it without me.”
Sam made to go back to Lucy. He’d had enough of Craig’s bullshit. But Craig grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“No, Sam, we can’t.”
His eyes had that crazy mad-dog intensity again. But Sam wasn’t buying it this time.
“Why the fuck not? You have fifty post-humans – and plenty of TNT by the looks of it.”
Craig leaned forward.
“Do you know why we blew up Leicester Square, Marylebone and Piccadilly?”
Sam frowned. His grief was welling up behind his eyes like a volcano about to erupt.
“Because you have no regard for human life. Because…”
Craig interrupted him.
“Why didn’t we just use our abilities to break into Vauxhall Cross and free the post-human prisoners?”
Sam shook his head. He could see Lucy’s body over Craig’s shoulder – and feel the pain in his neck flaring again.
“I don’t know,” he said, swallowing.
Craig leaned in closer.
“Because the bastards neutered us.”
Sam couldn’t help himself.
“What?”
“You saw Karl’s video. They don’t want us dead. They want to control us.”
“You mean the lobotomies?”
“Yes, and the medication.”
Sam frowned. Was his mind slow or was this not making sense?
“What medication?”
Craig pushed a hand through his scraggly hair, and blew out a breath.
“After you left post-humans started springing up everywhere - claiming they could hear people’s thoughts and even move objects with their minds. The British government were scared and decided to get control of the situation. After all, they couldn’t have superhuman people running around causing mayhem.”
“So what did they do?” asked Sam – not sure why he cared.
“They set up the Vauxhall Cross Post-Human Centre. Only they called it the Centre for New Schizophrenia and Temporal Lobe Epilepsy.”
“What?”
“The government wanted to round up all those pesky post-humans. But they didn’t want a panic. So they said post-humans were sick. They said they weren’t hearing other people’s thoughts but hallucinating because of a chemical brain imbalance. Then they offered a cure in the world’s first treatment centre for this ‘terrible new illness’. Scores of post-humans believed them and came.”
Sam glanced at Jean. “It’s true,” she said softly. Sam turned back to Craig.
“What happened to them?” he said – his eyes drawn back to Lucy.
“Everyone got a shot. It didn’t stop the voices in their heads, but it did turn post-humans into zombies. Easy to manipulate. Easy to control. Unfortunately for Peter a week later the voices stopped as well. So Peter was left with a bunch of zombies with no post-human abilities.”
Jean came forward and stood behind Craig, and put a hand on his shoulder.
“You’d been in Beijing for a year,” continued Craig, “when I found out what was happening. I went to see Peter and said it had to stop. He refused – told me it was for the good of humanity.”
Craig wiped a fleck of spittle from his mouth.
“A few hours later six huge guys in medic’s greens jumped me. I was taken to the post-human centre in Vauxhall Cross. Then one of them gave me the injection.”
Sam stared at Craig. His story didn’t add up.
“So how come…”
“I didn’t turn into a zombie? Don’t know. Maybe because I was different. As far as I know no other post-human can heal like me. Anyway I knew what the bastards expected so I played along – and bided my time. A week later I broke out with a handful of post-humans. I’d planned to hide out while the poison got out of their systems. After that Peter would be no match for us. We’d rescue the other post-humans – and make lives for ourselves somewhere else. Somewhere they’d never find us.”
“So what happened?”
Craig paused and licked his lips. When he spoke his voice was even hoarser than usual.
“It didn’t wear off – not exactly. People lost that glazed look – they woke up. But their abilities were either gone or too erratic to be of any use.”
Sam glanced at Jean.
“It’s true, Sam,” she said.
Sam shook his head. Craig’s story still didn’t make sense.
“If the treatment wiped out post-human abilities how come Karl could spin cricket balls around his head?”
“He was taken in later,” said Craig. “The lab boys must have changed their drug cocktail.”
Sam pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead and ground it in – picturing the way Craig’s fatal injuries had healed after he’d hurled him against Buller’s office wall.
“But why didn’t you break the others out of Vauxhall Cross? You still had your ability. You would have been invincible.”
Craig sighed.
“Healing comes at a heavy cost. It damn near killed me when I healed that woman. I couldn’t take on an army of security personnel.”
“That’s why we became terrorists,” said Jean. “We had no choice.”
Sam looked from Jean to Craig.
“So you want me to break the others out – because I’m still superhuman?”
Craig met his eye.
“It’s more than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Turns out the lab boffins had no idea how to suppress our abilities so they’d just mixed up a bunch of toxins. Anti-psychotics withdrawn from the market because they killed bone marrow. Vaccines full of mercury. Bottom line – we were fucked. They hadn’t just suppressed out abilities, they’d given us leukaemia.”
“What?” Now Craig had his attention.
“We’re sick, Sam. Everyone who received that injection is dying.”
Sam swallowed.
“Shit.”
“Yep – that about sums it up. But we have one hope – you.”
Sam rubbed his hand hard against his face, then through his hair, and blew out a long breath. Lucy was dead. He couldn’t change that. But maybe he could be of some use. Maybe that’s what she would have wanted. He looked at Craig.
“I might be able to help you rescue the post-humans but…”
“A stem cell transplant from an uncontaminated post-human cures the leukaemia. And that post-human, my friend, is you. You’ve not had a single injection or pill – you’re clean. You could save scores of post-humans’ lives – maybe even restore their abilities.”
Sam felt his jaw go slack. When was this shit going to stop?
“Why are you only telling me this now?” he said.
“I didn’t know if I could really trust you before.”
“And now?”
“Now I have no choice.”
Sam heard himself say:
“Wouldn’t you need special equipment to harvest my stem cells?”
“The other post-humans are in Farnborough, Surrey,” replied Craig. “We have a makeshift lab there, a doctor and the equipment to harvest your stem cells.”
“And if I agree what happens after?”
“We get the hell out of the UK. Somewhere far away from humans – like Alaska. We’ll rest and heal while Peter and the rest of the norms celebrate their victory.”
“And then?”
“Then, Sam, when we’re strong again, we’ll return and take our revenge.”
Sam looked at Craig – then at Jean. He was still too numb to know if he cared about the future of post-humans. But he did care about revenge. He wanted Peter fucking Stone to pay for Lucy’s death.
“I’m not waiting for ten years, Craig. He has to die now.”
“Who has to die?”
Sam flinched – then relaxed as he realized his mind was playing tricks on him. Because he could have sworn he’d just heard Peter’s voice. But he turned toward where it had seemed to come from anyway. How could he not? And there he was: Peter Stone standing by the garden gate – with Suzie beside him.
Sam felt his jaw go slack. He couldn’t believe Peter had been delivered to him like this. Maybe it was karma? Lucy’s death balanced out by Peter’s. Only he knew her death would never be balanced out. He clenched his hands. His fingers itched with power. He took a step forward – heat emanating from his clenched fists.
Then he noticed Suzie put her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were like dinner plates. She must have seen Lucy’s body. Her knees started to buckle. Sam caught her using his telekinetic ability before she hit the ground – and gently laid her on the soft earth – unconscious. What did Suzie know about Peter and Lucy, and the plight of the post-humans? Sam wasn’t sure. He found it hard to believe she knew nothing – but couldn’t accept she was a part of all this. He just couldn’t. Peter Stone interrupted his thoughts.
“Sam, I can explain. I didn’t do this.”
Sam snapped his attention back on Peter.
“You betrayed me,” he said.
He was back in that cocoon of power again. Everyone but Peter seemed distant – unreal.
Peter shook his head. “No, Sam. You have to listen to me – I did not kill Lucy.”
Sam would have laughed if his throat hadn’t been so tight with hate. He took another step forward. Peter backed up into the six-foot-high garden wall. He had nowhere to go.
“Sam, you have this all back to front.”
Sam stepped forward again.
“Why did you do it?” he screamed.
Part of him wanted to kill Peter right now. But another part wanted to understand why his friend had betrayed him.
Peter opened his mouth, but before he could speak Sam forced him onto his knees. The power inside him couldn’t wait. It wanted blood now. With another thought Sam squeezed Peter’s throat, narrowing his windpipe so only a trickle of air could pass. Peter gasped.
That’s better. Peter would die like Lucy had, gasping for air. Peter’s face was turning a florid red. It had started in his cheeks and spread up to his forehead and down his neck, while he squirmed like a stuck pig under Sam’s hold.
