Jimmy had managed to get half of them across and they were shouting encouragement back for the others, when there was a ripping sound, and Marissa’s backpack strap snapped. Marissa let out a yelp, and held tight to the rope. Her backpack fell into the river and was flushed hundreds of metres away in a matter of seconds.
It was a grim warning as to what could happen – especially during the next task, getting everyone safely across under gunfire.
While Mohican supervised the setting up of the machine guns that would provide a steady stream of fire to the left and right of the ropes and over their heads, the troops stood anxiously on the far bank. This was different. This was more like the real thing. Jimmy saw Rain Man whispering to Torres; Torres gave him a reassuring punch on the arm. When Jimmy went over and asked if he was OK, Rain Man told him to get lost. Jimmy shrugged.
The rain had eased up a little, but the water, if anything, was flowing faster and stronger as Mohican, standing behind the gunners, blew a whistle to begin their crossing. As the gunfire began Jimmy crouched down with the others.
‘Come on, we can do this!’ he cried.
Two soldiers darted forward, heads low, and fired the rope and grappling hook across. It caught first time! Jimmy himself made sure it was secure then clipped the same two soldiers on to the line and urged them forward as bullets ripped into the mud on either side of them. They plunged into the water, struggled against the current but finally made it across to properly secure the ropes and raise the line. The remaining soldiers scuttled forward, hauled themselves up on to the rope, secured themselves and began to race across. If they were frightened they showed no sign of it; their concentration was intense – even Rain Man, ducking down on the bank, waiting his turn, looked like he meant business. They were so keen that Jimmy even had to slow them down so that no more than four were on the rope at any one time – with their full packs and the extra weight caused by them being absolutely saturated by the rain, the rope bridge was beginning to sag in the middle.
Jimmy gave Rain Man a hand up, then Torres. Jimmy clipped himself on last and moved out. The gunfire was loud, even above the roar of the river, but not as loud as the yells of encouragement coming from the far bank. They were the last three. If they made it across the troop would have successfully completed its mission.
Jimmy was filled with an immense pride as he reached the halfway point. Between them, Mohican and he had turned a gang of lost souls into a troop of soldiers, a finely-tuned unit that could fight together, serve the Pres—
Wait a minute – what the hell am I thinking?
There, hanging precariously to a rope, gunfire all around him, soaked to the skin, he suddenly caught sight of what he’d become. It wasn’t quite an out-of-body experience, more like out of his mind. He was turning into exactly the opposite of what he had intended. A yes-sir, no-sir soldier preparing for a war he had no interest in. He’d been planning his escape, but instead had been sucked into soldiering by Mohican’s simple device of promoting him to Corporal.
Jimmy stared at the water.
That’s it!
My escape route!
All he had to do was unclip from the rope and fall in. He’d be swept miles downriver. Of course there was a strong possibility that he would drown. The current was vicious and if he wasn’t sucked under, the speed and strength of the river would probably smash him on the sharp rocks jutting out of the water. But it might be his only chance to get away. He absolutely did not want to be part of the President’s bloody army, and he had to get to New York before it did to warn the Titanic.
Jimmy stared at the water. He was a good swimmer, but wherever the water took him, whatever it did with him, it would be beyond his control.
The others were nearing the far bank. He had to decide now.
Bullets continued to yip above his head.
Jimmy’s damp finger curled around the clip and released it.
Jump on three.
One—
There was a metallic crack to his right – but not a bullet. Rain Man let out a panicked yell as his clip snapped and he was hurled backwards into the water.
‘Rain Man!’ Torres yelled.
He had already been whisked fifty metres away.
‘He can’t swim!’ Torres screamed.
If anything, the gunfire intensified, drowning out the concerned shouts from the far bank. Rain Man’s head disappeared under the water.
His one chance of escape and Rain Man couldn’t swim.
Jimmy dropped his pack and let go of the rope.
In a second the river swallowed him.
24
Grand Central
They heard the elephant before they saw it – not just its trumpet roar, but also a metallic dragging sound. Then they saw it, and thanked God that the street to their right was completely blocked with abandoned vehicles so that the creature, huge and mad, with the remnants of a heavy anchoring chain still attached to its leg, could not barge its way through. It tried – with the brute strength of its massive shoulders, with the pointy end of its razor tusks.
‘Cool!’ said Ty. ‘Do you think if I offered him a peanut he’d take it?’
‘Of course he would,’ said Claire, ‘along with your arm, your neck and your head.’
First Officer Jeffers urged them on – although he practically had to drag Claire, who was busy taking photos, and Ty, who just liked elephants.
He kept them moving all morning, every one of them aware, despite the distraction of the elephant, that they were being watched and followed. It wasn’t that they caught many actual glimpses of their pursuers – though they did occasionally see shadowy figures ducking down behind abandoned vehicles, or moving back from overlooking windows – it was a feeling, an intense awareness that they weren’t alone, that someone, somewhere, meant them harm: had already struck once and would strike again.
Jeffers led them up Broadway as far as 42nd Street and the entrance to the Grand Central Terminal. It was, as far as Claire knew, the largest railway station in the world. Over half a million passengers and tourists had once passed through it every day, but now it was empty of everything but skeletons and birds. Their footsteps echoed around like gunshots on the marbled floors. The main concourse, huge and cavernous, was dominated by a massive American flag, which drooped down, tattered. As they walked along, Ty nudged Claire’s elbow and pointed up at the ceiling: it was completely covered in an elaborately decorated depiction of the night sky, an astronomical guide to the stars. ‘Though it’s completely wrong,’ saidTy. ‘It’s based on some medieval map, and they didn’t know anything back then.’
‘You’ve been here before?’
‘All the time, with my pa. Loved it. You couldn’t move, it was so alive! Man, we’d buy hot dogs and just sit over there and watch . . .’
He stopped. There were tears in his eyes. Claire didn’t know what to say. They’d all run out of the right words months ago.
Jeffers waved them forward, down a ramp on to the lower concourse and gathered them in a food court. Some of the tables were still occupied by people who would never finish their meals. A small amount of food had been brought from the ship, and they were able to supplement this with sealed items recovered from some of the many fast food outlets dotted around and about. They drank warm Coke and snacked on potato chips. But they didn’t have much of an appetite. The whole area stank of rotting food. Guards were posted at the top of the ramp while Jeffers, Jonas and Dr Hill spread out a free tourist map of the station, one of hundreds lying scattered about, and debated their next move. When they’d come to a decision Jeffers took two crewmen with him and returned to the upper concourse, and from there back outside, trying to get the best radio signal he could in order to inform Captain Smith of his next move.
Claire kept an eye on Cleaver, sitting at a table by himself, the brim of his hat pulled down to leave the top half of his face hidden so that she couldn’t tell whether he was reading the small Bible open before him or sle
eping. As she watched, the man in the Hawaiian shirt, whose wife had disappeared earlier that morning, sat down opposite him. The minister s head scarcely moved up as the man began to speak. Within a few moments he abruptly jumped back up and stomped away Cleaver’s head remained bowed.
Claire slipped out of her seat and approached the Hawaiian man where he was leaning against a pillar on the far side of the food court. His cheeks were flushed and he kept firing angry glances towards the minister’s table.
‘Is everything OK?’ Claire asked.
‘What do you think?’ the man snapped. He glared at her for a moment, before sighing and shaking his head. ‘Sorry. It’s just – I asked that . . . that reverend to say a prayer for my wife, and he just refused . . . he just said if she was gone it was the will of the Lord! You imagine that?’
Claire was trying her best to calm the man down when there was a sudden commotion as Jeffers reappeared with his gun out and one of his crewmen supporting the other, who now had a rough bandage around his arm. His white shirt was ripped and soaked in blood. Dr Hill hurried up to examine him as Jeffers helped ease the injured man on to the floor.
‘He’s been shot,’ said Jeffers. ‘There’s a lot of people moving out there, coming this way.’
‘Why’re they shooting at us?’ one of the passengers asked in panic.
Jeffers glanced at Dr Hill, but didn’t immediately respond.
‘Maybe they don’t realise that we can help them,’ said another passenger. ‘If we just try and talk to them maybe—’
‘No,’ Jeffers said firmly, climbing back to his feet. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘We have to at least try,’ continued the passenger.
Jeffers took off his cap and wiped his brow. He looked around the passengers. ‘Listen to me, all of you. Whatever survivors there are out there, they’re not friendly. Whatever happened in this city after the plague has reduced them to cannibalism.’
He let it sit in the air. Claire already knew, but she still felt a shiver run through her.
‘You’re not serious . . .’ said one of the passengers.
‘Deadly serious. Dr Hill and I have both seen the evidence. We’re not safe out there – which is why we’re not going back out.’ This set off a flurry of questions, but Jeffers quickly held his hand up for silence. ‘Folks – you are here out of your own choice. We are here because we need to retrieve a vital part for the Titanic. If you wish to travel on to your homes in different parts of the city or beyond, if you wish to try and track down relatives, then I believe this station provides you with your best chance – perhaps your only chance of getting to your preferred destination safely. I’m going to split you up into small groups. You will use the underground rail tracks to traverse the city; we have a detailed map here, we have a supply of flashlights, and I am prepared to assign two armed guards to each group to get you as far as possible. But they may not be able to take you all of the way. After a while you’re going to be on your own. That’s a decision you have to make. What I will say is this – it’s going to take us a full day to get to our objective and back. I plan to be at this exact location twenty-four hours from now. If you decide to return to the Titanic for whatever reason, I would suggest that you do your best to make it here for this time tomorrow and then we can escort you to the ship. But we’re not going to hang around. Now, any questions?’
As with any large group of diverse people, there were loads of questions, some stupid, some bright. Jeffers answered them all as well as he could, but he was honest enough to answer, ‘I don’t know,’ to many of them. There was a crushing lack of information about what the rest of the city was like – this cannibalism might well be confined to one small section, or there might be thousands of them. Yes, the railway tunnels could also be teaming with cannibals.
Eventually Jeffers called a halt to the discussion and gathered the passengers around a map of the station which showed the platforms and tunnels and routes, and then split them into groups according to their destinations and assigned guards to each. There were six groups in all – the smallest with four passengers, requiring only one guard: the largest with ten, which included Jeffers himself, Jonas Jones, Dr Hill, Claire, Ty, a husband and wife, the Robinsons, an elderly man on a walking stick called Morgan, the man with the Hawaiian shirt, whose name was Rodriguez – and the Rev. Calvin Cleaver. The three remaining crewmen, including Mr Benson and the wounded man, joined this group.
When they were all ready to set off, Jeffers addressed them all. ‘On behalf of Captain Smith and myself,’ he said, ‘I want to wish you the best of luck with your journey. I hope you find what you’re looking for, be it family or friends, or perhaps just a little bit of closure. Remember, you have twenty-four hours to make your minds up about returning to the Titanic.’
The groups began to move out. As they passed each other, they shook hands solemnly. Only Cleaver failed to partake. He sat by himself, waiting.
Ty nudged Claire. ‘Looks like he’s with us.’
‘In a dark tunnel,’ said Claire, shuddering.
‘I’ll watch your back,’ said Ty,‘you watch mine.’
‘I think I’d rather be caught by the cannibals than be stuck with him,’ said Claire.
‘Don’t say that,’ said Ty.
Jeffers came up to her. ‘Claire – I don’t want you wandering off to take photographs, OK?’
‘I know,’ said Claire, rolling her eyes.
Jeffers smiled, and was just about to move on when he suddenly remembered something. ‘Oh, and Claire – when I was on the line with Captain Smith, I also spoke to your newspaper office . . .’
Claire immediately looked towards Cleaver. ‘Have they found Brian?’
‘Brian? No, it wasn’t about that. As you know, the communications centre monitors radio traffic, and it seems they picked up some Morse code they thought might be of interest to you.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘Morse . . . ? Why would—’
‘Just two words – Babe lives, with an exclamation mark. Mean anything to you?’
25
The Plan
They were found clinging to a rock two miles downriver, frozen, unable to move, on the verge of passing out and slipping back in, two almost-drowned rats. They could not feel their arms or legs. They were hauled out by their comrades, with Mohican yelling commands, and then rushed away in an ambulance. In the back, drifting between lucidity and coma, Rain Man whispered, ‘You saved my life. Why did you do that?’
‘Because I’m stupid,’ Jimmy whispered back.
He blacked out.
For a long time he wasn’t sure where he was. Or if he was alive or dead. He kept thinking he was awake and he was talking coherently to Claire, but then she vanished, or grew trotters. And then he realised he was asleep – but if you realise you’re asleep, are you really asleep? – that puzzled him, while he slept. When he did wake, he ached. He felt as if a dwarf with a very small sledge-hammer had whacked every single bone in his body. He didn’t want to ever move again, but then the nurse brought in a tray of bacon and eggs and toast and he immediately sat up and ate everything.
Rain Man was asleep in the bed opposite. There was an IV tube inserted in his arm. The girl with the constant stare was awake – but constantly staring at some far-off imaginary planet.
The nurse beamed down at him. ‘Our hero,’ she said. She nodded beyond him and he turned to find that some kind of a medal had been pinned to the wall. ‘The President himself came by last night and presented it to you. He was going to wait until this morning, but thought it was better to do it immediately in case you died.’
Jimmy swallowed. ‘Was that likely?’
‘Likely? It was probable – but you didn’t.’
‘What about him?’ Jimmy nodded towards Rain Man.
‘You both surprised us. You’re made of strong stuff.’
Jimmy glowed, just a little bit. And then he remembered: that’s how they operate. They praise you, they promote you, it’
s how they win your loyalty.
Escape – you have to escape.
But he was going nowhere just yet. When the nurse left he tried to stand – his legs were like jelly. He sat on the edge of the bed instead, slowly flexing his muscles, forcing the blood to flow back. He graduated to standing upright, then shuffling along. It was exhausting, but he knew he had to do it. He had to escape. But how? The river had been his best opportunity and he’d blown that by . . . doing something good. He would try and avoid being good in future. He’d had a lifetime of practice.
As the morning wore on Jimmy found himself being drawn again to the girl. There were crumbs on her top sheet and an empty plate on her locker, so she was now clearly capable of movement, but she appeared as lost as ever. Jimmy sat in a chair beside her bed and just looked at her.
Eventually he said: ‘I talked to you a while back about escaping. Just wondering if you’d had any further thoughts, or if you’ve managed to dig that tunnel while I’ve been out saving lives. I have a medal, you know? I’m pretty great. But I need help. I have to get out of here. I have to get back to Titanic. You’d love it there. Biggest cruise ship ever built. Everything on board, a real luxury liner. And we have chickens and pigs. Well, we had some pigs . . .’
He told her about Babe. He couldn’t help but laugh when he started in on the anxious wait for Babe’s execution and how he’d returned to the newsroom with a bag of sausages. ‘They weren’t really made out of Babe, you know? But if you’d seen her face . . .’ He sighed. The laughter was gone. ‘I just need to get back there. It’s the only home I have. The newspaper is . . . everything. Can you understand that?’ He looked for some response. Nothing. He sighed again. ‘Oh, what’s the bloody point?’
Titanic 2020: Cannibal City Page 15
