I moan slightly.
There is movement to my side, someone pushing roughly past me, fast and hard. “Kayla,” says part of my brain. A piece of it lying deep under the heavy layers of desire. She is moving toward... Her, moving toward what I want.
Kayla wants it too. Kayla wants Her for herself. She is trying to take Her from me. And I won’t have it. Not at all.
I find the gun in my hands again, bring it to bear. Because Kayla won’t take Her. She is mine. All mine. I want Her. Mine.
I try to focus, to get the sights lined up. But Kayla is too fast for my sluggish mind. And the hilt of the sword comes down like a lightning bolt, and then the Progeny goes down, disappears behind the bulk of her bed, and a little while later rational thought comes wandering back into my head.
“Feckin’ men,” Kayla says into my bewilderment. But it seems a general indictment rather than a specific criticism.
“What...?” I manage. “Did she...? Did I...?”
“A little bit of each.” Kayla shrugs. “She took advantage of someone easy to take advantage of.”
“How?”
“Bit of a glamour.” Kayla fiddles with the downed woman’s palm and pulls out a battery. “Bit of the old tit and arse.”
I go closer, see her lying there. She’s not been scalped. There’s no blood. Kayla must have used the hilt.
“Cover her up would you?” I say. There’s still a terrible beauty to her, even robbed of whatever power the battery was giving her.
I turn away and, to make myself feel better, think about how stupid she is to have listed her real home address.
Kayla lifts her by her hair. Throws a bedsheet over her. Throws the bundle over her shoulder.
Downstairs she ties the Progeny to a kitchen chair. Rough tight knots using twine she found in a drawer. The Progeny lies there, slumped forward, mouth slightly open.
“So,” I say, still hanging back in the doorway of the kitchen. “How do we do this?”
Kayla twists her head, working a crick out. “It’s hard to torture Progeny,” she says. “The host’s body isn’t really theirs. So what do they care if you slice it up? Just shut down some of the infected brain’s pain functions. They don’t care.” She taps the handle of her sword against the woman’s bruised temple. “Don’t feckin’ care. It’s their eggs they care about. Their young. Their ability to infect. To spread. They’re like some sort of feckin’ virus. So to torture a Progeny you’ve got to threaten that.”
“Isn’t...” I wonder if I want to pursue the thought. “Don’t the Progeny nest near the brainstem?”
“Sure do,” says Kayla, and promptly stabs the woman in the back of the neck.
The woman’s body contorts, lurching forward out of unconsciousness. The mouth opens wide, wider than it should. There’s an ugly crack as the jaw dislocates. It hangs, lolling open, and I swear I see a few rogue tendrils from the Progeny flicking back and forth in the back of her throat.
“Where’s my girl, you feckin’ whore?” Kayla’s voice is flat deadpan.
The sword flickers again. Another guttural scream issues from the unhinged mouth.
I turn away, my gorge rising. Blood is trickling down the woman’s neck. Another scream. Something spoken, but not English—something guttural and hard. A clacking of the voice box. An inhuman sound.
Jesus.
“Where, bitch?” Kayla’s voice—still flat, emotionless, like this bores her.
I can’t watch this. I can’t hear this. I pull the kitchen door closed behind me. It doesn’t do any good. I can still hear it all. And the pictures in my head are as vivid as if I saw it myself.
Jesus.
I go outside. Sit on the low wall that marks out the front yard. A small area of cracked concrete and weeds. Only the occasional scream reaches me now. I palm my eyes trying to erase the scene.
Madeline Ellman is not human. Not anymore. She’s Progeny. I need to remember that.
I pull out my gun, turn it over in my hands. I make sure the safety’s on. Part of me wishes Shaw never gave it to me. Not a shot fired. And would it have been better if one was? If I’d just killed the Progeny? Does anything deserve what Kayla’s putting... it... through?
But then, what about Ophelia? She’d be gone. Dead and lost. The whole world lost. The Progeny have a Dreamer. I repeat that over and over.
Jesus.
Eventually the sounds stop coming from the house. Eventually I stand up, go back inside. Kayla is standing in the kitchen doorway. She is blood-spattered and satisfied. Behind her I can see the cloud of eggs slowly settling, can see the bisected body of the alien twitching in the exposed cavity of the skull.
I gag again, taste bile in the back of my throat, feel the acid burn as I swallow it back down.
Kayla smiles. Her teeth are stained red. “Got it,” she says.
48
My nerves are still shot as we sit around the conference room. I can feel the weight of the gun pressed into my armpit. The great equalizer. Prized from Charlton Heston’s cold dead hand. And I don’t feel equal. I feel like the thing acts to expose my weaknesses, to show me exactly how right Shaw was. We need Kayla. I don’t think any of us could do what Kayla did. Because it was horrible, and awful, and necessary.
I look over at Kayla. She looks totally calm. There’s still dried blood on her cheek.
Tabitha is sitting next to her. She fidgets constantly. In her hands she fingers a new version of Clyde’s device. One that should do what Clyde promised his would. Something to evict Progeny. She can’t hold it still, playing with it, working it from one hand to the other. It shares its looks with Clyde’s original—a small black disk with a red button like a mushroom. And though I know it’s different, the sight of it makes me nervous. I really don’t want to get kicked in the frontal cortex again.
But we need it. If it works. If it’ll kick the Progeny out of heads. Tabitha doesn’t think it will. But I know Shaw does.
And that’s something else I couldn’t do. I couldn’t build anything close to what Tabitha has done. I couldn’t decipher a single document, a single word.
We’re a team. Everyone has a place and a role. And sitting here, I realize that’s me too. I have a place and a role. And it’s not glamorous. It’s not throwing magic spells, or carving aliens apart with a sword. It certainly isn’t gunplay It’s getting everyone working together. It is, as I overheard Shaw say, herding cats. Not in here, in the office, but out in the field. That’s my job. Let everyone else do theirs.
We need each other. If we’re to achieve anything. We have to be a team.
There again, given what we’re up against, I’m not sure even that will be much help.
“Run through it one more time,” I say. Because I’m sure I’ll find a hope if I look hard enough. I have to find it.
“Didcot,” Kayla says. “The power station.”
I’ve seen the place when I’ve headed down toward London. Hulking over green fields and belching steam.
“Electricity,” Tabitha says. And of course, that makes sense. The universal lubricant. Clyde told me that himself. Was that before or after he was turned? Was that some subtle Progeny joke? A clue he knew I’d never get?
“That’s what they’ve been doing here,” I say. “In Oxford. That’s how we picked up on the trail. How the police did. Back when we thought Kayla was...” I don’t finish that sentence. “Back when I didn’t understand what it is she does.”
Shaw gives me a smile for that one. It doesn’t really cut through the tension, but I appreciate it.
“They were fiddling with the electricity in new construction,” I say. “Something to do with the power there. I mean, God knows what they were doing but has to have been related. Something to amplify the power. To store it, I don’t know.”
“Need a lot of power,” Tabitha says. She doesn’t finish the thought.
“To bring a Feeder through.” Shaw does.
“Yes,” I say, because it’s almost easier to
concede the point now than it is to deny it.
“And they’ve got Ophelia there,” I say.
There’s a pause in which no one adds, “And Clyde.”
“She’s insurance,” Shaw says, breaking the silence.
Kayla’s face twists. Tabitha reaches out, hesitates, then pats her on the arm. The last person I saw her do that to was Clyde.
“But Ophelia’s not insurance against us,” I say. “It’s against the Dreamers.”
“They’ll try to stop the Feeders,” Tabitha says.
“But the Progeny will infect—” I stop myself. There is silence.
“They’ll infect her,” Kayla says. It sounds like a piece of her is breaking.
“The Dreamers need a consensus to kick out the Feeders?” I ask. “Without Ophelia they won’t be able to do it?”
“We don’t know,” Shaw says. It’s the answer I expected, but not the one I hoped for.
“Skull-face will back her,” I say. I don’t have proof of that but I know it all the same. “He’s her father,” I say. If Kayla hadn’t already broken the arms of her chair from squeezing them so hard, she’d probably do it now.
“The Progeny are banking on that being enough,” Shaw says. “They have to be. And they may well know more than us.”
“So we get the Progeny out of her,” I say.
We all turn to look at the disk Tabitha is playing with. She doesn’t quite meet the collective gaze.
“This is such bollocks,” she says.
And it is too much to ask of her. And it is too much to pin our hopes on. And there is a niggling voice in the back of my head that says, “Well, as Clyde’s machine didn’t work we don’t really know that no one here isn’t infected, isn’t still a sleeper agent working against us,” but I have to ignore it. I have to just trust. Because I can’t do this if I don’t trust these people. I can’t do this by myself.
“Ephie,” Shaw says. The word hangs there.
“The same parents as Ophelia,” I say, trying to pretend those words don’t affect Kayla. Her trying to pretend the same thing. “A potential Dreamer. Our potential Dreamer.”
“She’s coming with us,” Kayla says.
I don’t understand her position. It’s the most divisive issue. Tabitha and I stand together on it. As she put it, “You don’t bring a knife to a gunfight and you sure as shit don’t bring a twelve-year-old girl.”
“She’s our one ace in the hole,” Tabitha says. “If it all goes to shit. When it all goes... Why put her in harm’s way?”
“She’s only in harm’s way if she’s out of my sight,” Kayla says.
“Kayla’s her mother,” Shaw says. “Her word is good enough for me.”
And we can’t argue Kayla out of it, and I don’t want to harp on divisions at this moment. I want unity. So I change the topic and say, “There will be their... whatever they are,” I say. “Their pet bloody monsters.”
“Yes.” Shaw nods.
“Not a feckin’ problem.” Kayla’s voice hisses between clenched teeth.
“There will be the Progeny.” Shaw picks up on the list.
“Still not a problem,” Kayla says.
“And if one of them decides to look like your sister?” I ask.
She snaps me a look. Tabitha stares at both of us, perplexed. Apparently Kayla doesn’t share that tidbit of personal history with everyone.
For some reason in the middle of this shit storm, that actually makes me feel a little bit good.
“That worked once,” Kayla says. “They won’t get me again. Not before I get them.”
I’m not convinced but I don’t actually have a plan, so I just say, “OK,” and move on.
We all stare at the map of the site.
“And there will be Clyde,” Shaw says quietly. Because somebody had to eventually.
“We get it out of him,” I say. No hesitation. Not even my own doubts in the statement.
Again we look at Tabitha, at the little black disk.
“Such bollocks.” She turns away before I can tell if she’s tearing up or not.
Silence falls again.
“It’s about thirty minutes away,” Shaw says. “I’ll be driving,” she adds.
It’s all hands on deck for this one. And with the way Shaw hits that can’t be a bad thing.
“Shotgun,” I say.
“Yes,” Shaw nods, “you’re right. We’ll need one of those.”
49
It’s dark when we get to Didcot. The tourists they let go around half the plant have all headed home. Still, their presence here during daylight hours means the other half, plant B, is our best bet.
And still—what about the workers at plant B? They wouldn’t let the Progeny just hang out there. So, the little brain-scampi have to be hiding somewhere out of the way.
Shaw bypasses the empty visitor parking lot and pulls up in the shadow of a massive cooling tower. Steam slowly leaks up into the dark sky, a pale smudge, like a thumbprint on reality.
In the trunk, an over-sized fish tank containing Ephie and several of the more adventurous squid sloshes loudly.
“You OK?” Kayla asks. There is something unusually tender in her voice.
“I will be,” Ephie says. Whether it’s prophecy or just a child’s hope, I can’t tell.
I stare at the car’s door handle. I think about using it. I can’t quite build up the nerve. This is different from the other times I’ve gone up against the Progeny. This time there isn’t anger or the sudden blare of adrenaline. This time I’m scared.
Shaw touches my wrist.
“Aim low,” she says. “Toward the gut. You’ll end up shooting higher. Don’t go for head shots. Don’t worry about getting the Progeny. Just slow them down. Their hosts need hearts and lungs just like the rest of us.”
“OK,” I say. And there is something reassuring in that, though I can’t put my finger on exactly what.
“Let’s go,” Shaw says to the car in general.
We go.
Shaw takes point, gripping a pump-action shotgun that looks even more incongruous against her pants suit than the sneakers she’s changed into. Tabitha and I stand behind her to form a rough triangle. We’ve been trusted with pistols. Tabitha’s grip is shakier than mine, but not much.
Kayla moves—a brief flash of motion and then gone. Ephie stays in the car. She’s got a walkie-talkie and I worry, but I think I’d feel like an arse if I asked her to make sure she doesn’t drop it in the tank and electrocute herself.
Gravel crunches beneath our feet. I can see my breath in the air. I wish I’d worn a thicker coat. Which is a minor wish compared to most of the things passing through my head, but even that doesn’t come true.
“Where is everybody?” Tabitha asks. “Should be lights. Guards. People.”
She’s right. Apart from our footsteps the place is eerily quiet. And I don’t know the answer, and I don’t want to know the answer. Apparently neither does Shaw, because she keeps leading us forward without a word.
There is a crunch of gravel to our right and we all spin. Shaw pumps her gun with a loud “ker-chunk.”
It’s Kayla.
“Voices,” she says. “Movement.” She points to another of the cooling towers.
“There?” I say
“Inside.” She goes three steps forward and then pauses, waits for us to catch up to her. And then I realize Kayla is scared too. Because as furious and as bloodthirsty as she is right now, she’s not charging in alone.
Because she knows she can’t save Ophelia. Someone else has to.
Me.
No pressure.
A flight of industrial-looking steel stairs leads up the side of the cooling tower to a small gray door set into the mass of sloping concrete. We climb as silently as we can, wincing each time a footstep rings out on the metal steps. Kayla waits silently at the top.
I can feel my heart beating slow and hard in my chest. My breath and footsteps coming at the same steady intervals. My b
ody is drumming a steady funeral march.
I check the safety on my gun at the top of the stairs. It’s off this time.
We’re not high up, only thirty feet or so off the ground but I can see the countryside stretching off away from here, I can see the village of Didcot, low houses, fields and hedges, a small copse of trees. I can see the glow of Oxford as a yellow haze on the horizon. I can see the car we drove here in, the silhouette of Ephie in the boot. I remember why we’re doing this, what we’re fighting for.
Clyde’s in there. My friend’s in there. A little girl is in there, and she needs to be saved. We’re going to fix this.
Kayla’s hand is on the door handle. Shaw checks each of our faces one by one.
“Let’s do this,” I say.
So we do.
50
Kayla turns the door handle slowly, silently. Her hand doesn’t even quiver. The mechanism doesn’t squeak. Smooth. Silent. My heart crashes in my chest. The handle completes its descent. We all stand there. Waiting. One. Two—
Kayla slams her shoulder into the door. The lock gives with a short, sharp crack. Steam billows out as the door flies open. We push forward into its enveloping clouds.
For a moment I can see nothing, can feel nothing, can just taste the steam, a thick foul flavor coating my nose and mouth, sticking my hair to my scalp. We blink and cough.
Then light—sudden and abrupt. Spotlights coming on from all directions, casting the base of the tower in a sudden white glow. I shield my eyes, trying to see.
At first it’s just shadows, shapes, holes in the blinding field of light. But not for long. Not for long enough. Because then I see what we’re up against.
In the center of the room stand Olsted and the runner. Olsted with an oddly youthful energy in his old body. The runner—tall and languid, thin limbs swaying slightly. Clouds of steam come up through the grill-like floor, partially obscuring the Progeny, making them almost ethereal. In-between the pair stands Ophelia. She is not bound, is not held by either of them. She stands calmly There is a little color in her cheeks. Her dress and hair have dried somewhat. Apparently she’s OK out of water now. If that’s part of her evolution as a dreamer or because of the humid atmosphere, or because of some other fact that would cause my brain to perform gymnastics it never trained for, I’m not sure. She is taller than I imagined her being from seeing her in the pool.
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