It was only when she entered the hospital that the true scale of the disaster began to hit her. It was bedlam in there. Even the reception area was filled with camp beds on which were lying badly injured people. Some of the injuries were so shocking they turned Robin’s stomach and she wondered why the people concerned weren’t being operated on or in intensive care, then she realized she was seeing just the tip of the iceberg. Everywhere she looked she saw more badly injured people - they packed the hospital corridors in all directions. And this was just one hospital . . .
She managed to stop a harassed-looking nurse and told her Dr Bresnihan had sent her. The nurse gave her directions to Room B12 on the ground floor where blood was being collected. Robin then picked her way through the nightmare tangle of shattered bodies, averting her eyes from the more horrendous sights.
A ridiculously young-looking nurse seemed to be in sole charge of Room B12 and the dozen or so donors laid out on make-shift beds with tubes in their arms. Robin hoped the girl knew what she was doing as she stood there waiting for a vacant space on the row of beds.
While she was waiting an even younger nurse appeared briefly to take a blood sample from her thumb and then hurried away with it. When her turn finally came she lay on the bunk and kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling as the nurse made several unsuccessful attempts to find a vein. To distract herself from the pain she asked about the huge number of casualties outside. The girl told her they were mostly victims of collapsed buildings, gas explosions and so on, all due to the subsidences caused by the creature’s growth under London. ‘We’re completely overwhelmed here -but all the other hospitals outside of the no-go area are the same. They’ve been trying to get more of the casualties sent to hospitals outside of London but travel by road is impossible and there aren’t enough helicopters available to make a dent in the numbers . . .’
She finally got the needle into one of Robin’s veins, handed her a rubber bulb and told her to keep squeezing it and then hurried away. Robin squeezed the bulb dutifully, resisting the temptation to twist her head round to see if the bottle on the stand behind her was filling up with blood. Instead she looked at the donor on the bed to her right. He was a beefy young man with a maze of tattoos on his muscular arm. To her annoyance she saw he was staring right at her, and obviously had been for some time.
‘Hi! How ya doin?’ he said and grinned. Even seen sideways the grin was plainly a lascivious one. She returned her gaze to the ceiling. ‘Marvellous,’ she muttered. Just what she needed. An amorous yob.
The next half hour or so was not enjoyable for her as she lay there pumping away and trying to ignore the comments which came in a steady stream from her neighbour, who’d introduced himself as Kevin. She was relieved when the young nurse returned, removed the tube from his arm and told him he could go. ‘Where’s me tea and biscuits?’ he demanded.
‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ said the young nurse. ‘There are people waiting to use that bed, so get moving!’
‘Up yours, Florence fucking Nightingale,’ he told her, but got slowly to his feet just the same. Then, with a final leer and a wink at Robin, he ambled away. Robin was more than pleased when his place was taken by a plump, middle-aged woman.
A short time later the nurse removed Robin’s tube as well, dabbed at the puncture with a disinfectant-soaked swab and told her to keep the swab pressed against her arm for the time being. Robin took hold of the swab and sat up - and immediately felt a little nauseous. She told this to the nurse, who said, ‘I’m sorry. Normally you could lie there for a while to recover but we’ve got people queuing to give blood and we need it urgently.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Robin with what she hoped was a brave smile. She stood up and swayed slightly.
if you feel dizzy, like you’re going to faint,’ said the nurse sympathetically, ‘sit down right away and put your head between your knees.’
‘I think it would be less trouble if I just fainted,’ said Robin. She started for the door then stopped and said to the nurse, ‘I feel I should be doing something more than just giving an armful of blood. There must be some other way I can help you people.’
The girl wiped a strand of hair from her eye and surveyed her critically. ‘Had any nursing training? First-aid?’
‘No to both questions,’ admitted Robin.
The girl frowned thoughtfully then her face brightened, i’ve got it! Wait here!’ She dashed out of the room then quickly reappeared with an overweight black nurse in tow. ‘Jasmine, take this lady downstairs and have her relieve Julie in the basement. Julie then will be able to give me a hand up here.’ She turned to Robin. ‘Thanks a lot, Miss.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ said Robin with a shrug, wondering what the hell it was she’d got herself into.
The black nurse led her through the carnage outside and then downstairs into the basement. There were casualties down there as well, even in the boiler room. Moans and sobs filled the hot and musty air. Robin had to take care where she stepped as she made her way between the mattresses that covered every available foot of floor space.
Finally the nurse stopped at a door, opened it and ushered Robin through.
Robin stepped into the room and found herself in one of her worst nightmares.
The room - a storeroom of some kind - was full of children. Small children. All aged between two and four. There were about thirty of them altogether. Some were crying, some laughing. Robin hated children. Well, hated was not quite the right word. She loathed children. Especially small ones. She would avoid visiting the homes of her dearest and oldest friends when they succumbed to peer group and family pressures and surrendered their independence and every waking moment to one of these all-demanding pink parasites . . .
A nurse stood slumped in the middle of the mass of children - a still centre in a hurricane. She looked expectantly to the other nurse and Robin.
This lady’s come to relieve you,’ said the black nurse. ‘You’re to go help Sally in the blood room.’
The nurse looked as if she was going to weep with relief. ‘Right!’ she said. As she hurried for the door, Robin, panic-stricken, cried, ‘I don’t know how to care for sick children!’
‘Oh, these kids aren’t sick. This is just a temporary creche we’ve set up until their parents can be found or relatives come and collect them.’
‘But what shall I do with them?’ asked Robin helplessly. ‘Just keep them entertained. And you may have to change a nappy or two.’ The two nurses then hurried out. The door closed behind them.
Robin stared round the room and wanted to scream.
The Lynx helicopter touched down in Piccadilly Circus. Thomas followed the SAS men out, grateful to be on the ground again. Then he gazed about in wonder at the desolate scene. Piccadilly Circus was in ruins. Buildings had collapsed, there were abandoned cars everywhere and large sections of the road and pavements jutted upwards as if there had been an earthquake. Overhead a pall of thick, black smoke hung in the air.
But what most disturbed him was the eerie silence. Here it was nearly 8 p.m. on a warm summer’s night in the very centre of London and not a sound could be heard . . .
‘Hey, doc! Mind giving us a hand?’ It was Cox-Hay-ward. He and his men were hurriedly unloading equipment from the helicopter. Thomas carefully placed the metal case on the ground and went to assist them. The task was accomplished in less than a minute. Then the pilot said to Cox-Hayward, ‘We’ll be waiting for your pick-up signal, Lieutenant. Good luck!’ The engines started and Thomas and the SAS men stepped back as the rotors began to move.
The Lynx rose into the air and Thomas couldn’t help feeling abandoned and vulnerable.
Suddenly, in the distance, there was a crackle of gunfire. ‘What’s that?’ he asked in alarm.
‘Army unit dealing with looters, most probably,’ said Cox-Hayward, who was opening one of the crates. ‘Lot of it about . . .’ He pulled a bulky white suit out of the crate. ‘Right, chaps. Let’s get into these as
quickly as possible. And let’s hope the bloody things do what they’re supposed to . . .’
He handed a suit to Thomas. ‘They’re insulation suits designed to withstand extreme cold, except in this case we won’t be wearing them to keep warm. They’re in one piece and sealed with a plastic compound to make them watertight.’
Thomas struggled into the suit which seemed to consist of several layers of different materials. At least it would give them some protection against the tentacles . . .
He was then handed a helmet. It was large and heavy, with a lamp above the wide plastic visor. ‘The boffins at Cardington ran these up in just a few hours so don’t be surprised if there are still a few bugs,’ said Cox-Hayward jovially as he showed Thomas how the helmet worked. ‘Originally the plan was to use Navy closed-circuit breathing sets but it was quickly realized that without any outlet we’d roast in our own body heat. So they came up with an alternative approach - when you breathe in you take in air from outside through a one-way valve but the air being vented from the helmet has to pass through a refrigerated coil. Clever, huh?’
Thomas agreed it was. He was more impressed by the nonchalance exhibited by Cox-Hayward and his men. From their casual attitude one would think they were kitting up for a ramble in the Lake District rather than preparing to go down and . . .
He tried not to think about it.
‘The helmet also contains a short-range two-way radio so we can all keep in touch,’ continued Cox-Hayward. ‘The power for it, the lamp and the refrigeration unit comes from this lightweight fuel cell . . .’ He held up a harness that had a small, insulated white box attached to it. Beside the box was an air cylinder. Thomas indicated the latter and asked, ‘Why a separate air supply?’
‘There may be flooded sections down there. If we have to go underwater these tanks will give us twenty-five minutes of air. Ever been scuba diving, doc?’
‘No,’ said Thomas glumly, not relishing the thought of having to grope his way through a submerged tunnel with that thing in the vicinity.
‘Well, nothing to it,’ said Cox-Hayward cheerfully. ‘Here, let me show you how to switch over to the bottled stuff . . .’
After that he helped him into his harness and connected up his power and air lines, then lowered the helmet over his head and sealed it up.
Thomas experienced a momentary pang of claustrophobia inside the helmet but it passed quickly. Using his tongue in the way that Cox-Hayward had instructed him he turned on the radio and was rewarded by a crackle of life in the earphones. Then he heard the voices of the other men who were already suited up: ‘Feel like a bleeding Yank footballer in all this gear!’ ‘You look more like a reject from Star Wars' ‘Hey, how the hell do you piss in here . . .?’
Then Thomas heard Cox-Hayward’s voice come ringing through the banter: ‘Okay men, cut the chatter and keep the channel free for my instructions. Only speak if you have something important to say. And it had better be bloody important. Now collect your gear and weapons and let’s go.’
They immediately began picking up the equipment that lay scattered around: lengths of nylon rope, long machetes and axes, sub-machine-guns and other weapons. One man had a flame-thrower and another, Thomas saw, was carrying a small chain saw. Thomas picked up the metal case and waited passively as Cox-Hayward hooked a machete and a small hatchet onto the belt of his harness. He had the distinct impression that Cox-Hayward was treating him as if he was highly fragile merchandise and he rather resented it.
‘Ready, doctor?’ came the Lieutenant’s voice over the earphones.
‘Ready,’ he answered firmly.
They moved off, with Cox-Hayward in the lead, in single file, towards the nearest tube entrance, which was the one in front of the restored facade of the London Pavilion cinema on the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Coventry Street. Cox-Hayward, with Thomas behind him, paused at the top of the stairs and switched on his lamp. Thomas reached up and did the same. Then Cox-Hayward started down the narrow, curving staircase. Thomas followed, his heart thumping furiously.
Then, at the bottom of the stairs, the lieutenant suddenly halted. ‘Watch out!’ he hissed over the radio. Over his shoulder Thomas saw why he’d stopped. Out of the darkness of the tunnel leading into the station snaked the questing tip of a thick, black tendril . . .
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Thomas froze as the obscene form came towards them. It was similar in size to the one he’d seen in Fletcher’s laboratory but the dead specimen hadn’t prepared him for the shock of seeing one of the things alive and moving. There was something horribly purposeful about the way it swayed back and forth as it approached - if he didn’t know it was a mindless appendage he would have sworn it was intelligent.
‘Stay perfectly still, everyone,’ ordered Cox-Hayward. ‘We’ll see if these suits really work.’
The pointed tip of the tendril was now only a couple of feet away from Cox-Hayward. It was moving at chest height and seemed to be heading deliberately for him. Thomas tensed. What if his infrared theory was wrong?
The tendril touched Cox-Hayward on the shoulder, pulled back a few inches, nudged him tentatively then rose up over his shoulder and snaked towards Thomas.
He held his breath as the tip of the tendril bumped against his face-plate, leaving a smear on the thick glass. He forced himself to calmly examine the thing. He saw that there was a small hole in the centre of the tip. It seemed to be expanding and contracting . . .
Then the thing went higher and he felt it tap against his lamp.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Cox-Hayward. ‘What’s it doing?’
With a dry mouth Thomas said, ‘It’s attracted by the light of my helmet lamp. Maybe it can detect other wavelengths, but it only attacks heat sources that indicate living animals . . .’
To his relief the tendril began to move past him. it’s going on,’ he said.
In front of him Cox-Hayward turned and looked. Thomas decided to do likewise. He saw that the tendril was snaking its way past the other men without paying them any attention. Then, when it reached the point on the stairs where it was illuminated by a shaft of fading daylight, it abruptly pulled back.
‘Sunlight must overload its sensory system,’ said Thomas.
‘Yeah. But it won’t be light for much longer so we’d better get cracking. Come on, men.’
They resumed their descent of the stairs. The vibrations from their footsteps were obviously detected by the tendril, Thomas noted, because it began to sway back and forth in an almost agitated manner, forcing a couple of the men to duck out of the way. Quickly they all ran down the short tunnel that led into the station, then, again, Cox-Hayward ordered a halt.
‘Jesus,’ whispered someone over the radio.
The beams from the lamps revealed that the circular ticket area of the upper part of the station was literally crawling with tendrils. It was like being in a nest of giant snakes - or, rather, giant worms . . .
‘Okay, lads, move carefully and watch where you put your feet. Anything grabs you, don’t hesitate to start hacking. Same thing if you see anyone else grabbed . . .’
Cox-Hayward started forward. Thomas took a deep breath - and wished he hadn’t. His helmet was now full of a pungent smell. He wished he could switch to his bottled air supply but knew he should preserve it for later.
He followed Cox-Hayward towards the top of the Bakerloo Line escalators, trying not to step on any tendrils that were writhing sinuously all around him.
Some were very slender. Others were as thick as a man’s thigh.
Then he became aware he was walking on something soft. He stared hard at the floor ahead of him and saw that it was covered with clothing. Suits, shirts, dresses, jeans, shoes . . . and then, to his horror, he saw other things. Snatches of hair, wrinkled sacs of what looked like rubber but what he knew was human skin.
Cox-Hayward hadn’t said anything yet but one of the men behind suddenly said, ‘Hey, what is all this shit on the floor?’
‘Peo
ple,’ said Thomas bluntly. ‘Or what’s left of people when these things get through with them.’ He felt sick but he knew he’d be finished if he threw up in his helmet.
‘Shit . . .’ muttered someone.
The tendrils stirred as the line of men passed through them. Several times the tip of one of them rose up, swaying back and forth as if sniffing the air, but they made no move to attack.
Thomas joined Cox-Hayward at the top of the escalators and peered down. The beams of their lamps revealed that both of the stationary escalators, and the ledge between them, were covered with tendrils. ‘Good God,’ said Thomas in dismay. ‘How on earth are we going to get down?’ The only possible way would be to slide along the lengths of the closely packed tendrils, but he doubted he could do that without throwing up.
‘Time we put the cat among the pigeons,’ said Cox-Hayward. ‘Fox, front and centre with your toy!’ The man carrying the chain saw stepped forward. Cox-Hayward indicated the point where the thick mass of tendrils spilled out over the lip of the escalator. ‘Let ’er, rip, Fox. The rest of you get ready for anything. I have a feeling our friend down there isn’t going to like this.’
The SAS man started the chain saw. Even through the helmet and earphones it sounded incredibly loud to
Thomas and he saw the tendrils stir in response. Were they sensitive to sound? It was unlikely. Perhaps they had a limited sensitivity to vibrations . . .
Fox applied the moving blade of the saw to the skin of a tendril some two feet in diameter. The teeth cut through it easily and thick, black fluid spurted out. A violent shudder ran along the tendril and it started to move backwards, as if it was being withdrawn. At the same time all the other tendrils began to become more agitated.
Simon Ian Childer Page 16
