Tempus: The Phoenix Man

by Matt Hilton

  ‘Stop here,’ Rembrandt said.

  Jamal brought the van to a halt. Ash as fine as silt billowed around them before a stray breeze snatched it away.

  Ahead of them to their right stood the short terrace row of buildings, miraculous survivors of the nuclear holocaust. The roofs had been torn from the buildings, and the left most side had caved in, yet the rest stood relatively untouched. Any people living within the structures would be tough and dangerous survivors. You didn’t get to hold on to a prime location like the terrace unless you were tougher and more dangerous than those who’d attempt to take it from you. Being less than three quarters of a mile from The Castle, Rembrandt had often encouraged Semple to have the ruins demolished, as leaving it intact was allowing a potential threat to set up home within striking distance of police HQ.

  ‘We go in on foot from here,’ Rembrandt told his team. ‘Nice and easy does it, OK. There’s full likelihood that we’ll meet resistance.’

  ‘You want me to bring the torch, Chief?’ asked Oxford. In the equipment compartment was stacked an oxyacetylene bottle and cutting torch. It was employed by the team to cut hinges from barricaded doors, and on occasion - as in this case - for gaining admittance to secure vaults.

  ‘The Universal Key will do for now, Ox,’ Rembrandt said.

  Oxford hauled up the bright orange battering ram previously deployed during police raids to gain entry to the homes of criminals. It was a heavy and cumbersome tool in most people’s hands, but it was as if Oxford was wielding a pencil the way he manipulated it in one hand. He’d affixed a webbing strap to one of the half-moon handles on the ram, and he slung it over his shoulder, bumping Kwolek with his opposite shoulder as he did so. He dropped a big palm to steady himself, and it met Kwolek’s thigh. Oxford snatched his hand away as if a snake lunged for it.

  ‘Sorry, Crystal,’ he muttered, looking as embarrassed as hell from the way he shied away.

  Harry Bowlam snickered at Oxford’s shyness. ‘Are you trying to cop a feel there, Ox? Crystal will have your fingers off for that.’

  ‘Shut it, Harry. Leave Ox alone. We all know it’s you that tries to touch my breasts when you’re supposed to be checking my harness.’ Kwolek eased herself out of the corner so that she could look up at Oxford. ‘You’re the only gentleman in this van,’ she reassured him. ‘In fact I’d go as far as to say you’re the only gentleman left in Old City.’

  ‘Shame,’ Brent Walker said, with a nudge of his elbow to the side of his friend, Harry. ‘You might have been in there, Ox, but we all know that Crystal prefers a bit of rough. Only goes for bad boys. Maybe if I teach you a few swear words you’ll have more chance of getting into her pants.’

  ‘Swearing is for ignorant people,’ Ox said petulantly.

  ‘You calling me ignorant, you fucking twat?’ Brent laughed loudly to show he was joking.

  ‘Shut it, Walker,’ Rembrandt snapped. ‘Keep your mind on the job. You too, Bowlam. Ox, you and Kwolek hang back while I check things out with Tweedledum and Tweedledee here. Jamal, I need you to stay with the van. If things go pear-shaped I want a quick way out of here.’

  Jamal Dhand was the most capable soldier among Rembrandt’s team, having been one of only a handful of Asians who’d earned the wings and the maroon beret with the Parachute Regiment back in the early 1980s. When and if it came to a firefight, Rembrandt would like to have the ex-soldier at his back, but his abilities as a superb driver were more important to a successful escape. The others didn’t have the experience of defensive and evasive driving that Jamal brought to the team. Bowlam, Walker and Kwolek were what would be termed enthusiastic beginners when it came to soldiering, but they were decent enough cops. Oxford – due solely to his low IQ – was good for a fistfight, but regarding extreme violence, Rembrandt found the man to be timid and reluctant to pull the trigger. Some of his contemporaries frowned on Oxford’s position in Rembrandt’s team, but the man’s uncommon gentleness was an admirable trait in this brutal world. He found the big man’s child-like qualities endearing, as he knew did all the others, despite their constant pulling of his leg. Only they were allowed to make jokes at his expense: anyone else poking fun at Oxford would find themselves surrounded by stern faces and clenched fists, surprisingly with Harry and Brent at the forefront. The two jokers were loyal to all of the team, and Rembrandt happy to have them watching his arse as they recce’d the approach to the museum.

  A side door allowed Brent Walker and Harry Bowlam to exit the van. They moved towards the front, Bowlam going to one knee and sighting his carbine towards the terrace. Walker swept the area to his left, checking the landfill site for anyone lurking among the piles of rubble. Rembrandt came out the passenger door and also brought up his gun, checking to the right. Through swirling grit he could see part of the way along Great Russell Street to where ornate gates once stood at the entrance to the museum grounds. All that was left was molten stumps of iron, half buried in a drift of ash. Stone pillars that supported the gates had been blown away by the nuclear blasts that devastated London. He tracked his sights back to the terrace, checking the upper floors. If an ambush were to come it would most likely begin with a sniper taking potshots from the highest floor. The windows hadn’t survived the explosions, but someone had shored up the gaps between the frames with scavenged doors. Slots about the size of a letterbox had been cut in the doors, allowing peepholes, or rifle holes, for those inside. Rembrandt caught no sign of movement. He quickly scanned the lower floors and nothing alerted him to danger. He’d be surprised if such prime property did not house a group of survivor’s dozens strong. Maybe those inside hadn’t heard their approach, and had battened down for the coming night. It was difficult telling the time when the sky was a constant dustbowl of greys and browns, where the sunlight was barely differentiated from that of the moon. Rembrandt checked his Timex wristwatch and found that it was after 7pm. Here, approaching mid-July, the sun would still be high in the sky. It was early for the inhabitants to retire for the night.

  He beckoned Ox and Kwolek out of the van. The woman came out first, and she moved to kneel beside Bowlam, allowing him to stand and pad forward and take another covering position towards the left corner of the terrace where a pile of bricks and timber had recently collapsed onto the pavement. A sign above the shattered window at ground level showed that this portion of the building used to be a restaurant. No sign of tables, chairs or diners was evident now: all incinerated in the first moments after the missiles struck Whitehall. Ox clambered from the van, lugging the ram on his shoulder, a rifle braced across his chest. Surprisingly nimble for such a giant, he danced across the clutter of rubble and took up a position on the opposite side of Great Russell Street where the corner of a building stood like a ragged iceberg in a filthy sea.

  Jamal reversed the van, retreating to where the roadway had been cleared at the junction of New Oxford and Bloomsbury Streets. Rembrandt took a slow scan around, and his gaze settled on a mountain of rubble to his left. Had something moved, a head pulled down out of sight just as he’d turned to survey the area? He stared for a good ten seconds, but all that moved was the gentle sifting ash. He discarded the sense of being watched, as he could detect none of the lurking animosity that usually accompanied such a prickling feeling between the shoulders. Having attracted no gunfire from the terrace row, Rembrandt waved Bowlam and Walker on, and he followed a few paces behind as they jogged towards the museum grounds. Before the bombs, a huge plaza greeted the thousands of visitors that visited the landmark daily. Just inside, to the right and left of the gates, sunken gardens were filled with dirt and trash, some of it looking as if it had been recently dumped. No human bones littered the site as they had at Warren Frome’s rubbish mound. The plaza itself was relatively clear of rubble, as were the steps up to the original entrance. The magnificent Greek revival façade was a distant memory, with only stubs of columns jutting from the concrete. Shattered pieces of Sir Richard Westmacott’s “The Progress of Civilisation”
lay all around, remnants of the ornate pediment that once crowned the façade. There was no sign of human habitation within the ruins.

  Walker and Bowlam led the way across the plaza. They then took up flanking posts to each side, kneeling to train their guns back the way they’d come. There was no sign of Jamal or the van through the swirling dust clouds, but Kwolek and Ox moved forward, their backs now protected by Rembrandt as they headed up the steps. When they were safely between the stumps of the columns, Rembrandt joined them, and then the others followed suit.

  It was apparent to Rembrandt that treasure hunters had been industrious here. Some of the collapsed walls and roof had been dragged away, and the original tiled floor of the entrance way was clear as they moved inside. In the original Great Court much of the masonry had been piled into mounds, and interspersed with crumbling marble and brickwork were chunks of worked stone that were all that remained of ancient statuary. There was little flammable material in the piles, everything that could be burned already scavenged. Towards the back of the Great Court and the remains of the rear exhibition halls a tent camp had grown up. Anything that could be employed to offer protection from the cold and choking ash had been utilized, and the camp was akin to the poorest third world shantytown on record. Oil drums had been placed in circles in front of the tents and huts, looking like a communal fire pit around which a large group could gather, to cook together. At first he thought that the holes in the drums had been added to allow air in among the coals, to promote the temperature of the fire, but on closer inspection he found that the drums were pocked by bullet holes. Proof that those living within the ruins were armed, and a lack of ammunition wasn’t an issue if they could waste it shooting at oil drums. Even through his breathing kit, Rembrandt imagined he could detect the stench of unwashed bodies and human waste, and could see the filthy beds where people ordinarily curled up like animals. Rembrandt didn’t know the name of the pediment above the original entrance, but if this was all that the progress of civilisation had led to, then God help humanity in its final hour.

  Rembrandt lifted his left arm, making a fist, and bringing the others to a halt. They crouched, wary of a trap. Rembrandt checked the floor and saw spent brass bullet casings. He leaned down and picked one up, juggling it onto the palm of his rubber gloves. The visor on his helmet was peppered with ash. Rembrandt wiped at it, clearing it for a better view of the shell casing. There was no need, because he recognised the casing as being the same as the rounds in his own carbine. Had others from The Castle been here before him? He didn’t doubt that Semple would have the area cleared of anyone likely to impede the search for his beloved paintings, but had there been a need to slaughter the inhabitants of the museum? Of course, the presence of similar ammunition didn’t mean that the shooters had been policemen.

  It looked like the denizens of the museum were a trigger-happy bunch: not unusual in Old City.

  Many of the scavenger groups had armed themselves, and had found weaponry similar to that employed by the police. The museum dwellers would be similar most other groups, who subsisted on what they could steal by force. They had no respect for the law, but they did fear the police. Rembrandt wondered if they’d scurried away on spotting his team outside the museum. He hoped that Jamal would be safe out there alone. A group desperate enough might see a lone cop and a well-stocked van easy game, too tempting to resist. Momentarily he considered retreat.

  In the next instant he shook off the notion. If he returned to The Castle without the painting, on the flimsy excuse that he feared an attack on his team, he’d be wearing his balls in a sling for a month. The Guvnor, as much as he was a surrogate parent to Rembrandt, was the type of father that ruled by tyranny and punishment. Spare the rod and spoil the child was an idea Semple preached. He’d likely set his brutish guardsmen on Rembrandt to remind him of that lesson.

  From under his bulletproof vest, Rembrandt pulled out the schematic given to him earlier by Semple. He checked the layout of the building against the tumbled remnants of once magnificent walls.

  He indicated they go left, following the curve of a ramp upward. As they reached the top of the ramp another smaller hall opened up before them. Here pathways had been formed between the mounds of brick. Jutting out here and there were the rusted metal legs of tables, indicating that a café had once dominated the space. A portion of the museum wall had avoided demolition and stood tall to their left. Rembrandt could see where a trail led through a portal at its base. He indicated that Bowlam take the lead and the cop rushed forward to secure the doorway. Ox came up behind Rembrandt, now holding the ram in his hands, his carbine slung by its strap from his shoulder.

  ‘I don’t like this place, Chief,’ Ox said. His voice was a faint rasp through his respirator.

  ‘Me neither, but we’re here and that’s it. Stay frosty, OK.’

  ‘It’s like a mausoleum,’ the big man added.

  Rembrandt had to agree. The Great Court felt like a place for the dead. It was too quiet, too still, too dark: as if they were restless spirits moving through a tomb.

  Bowlam signalled the all clear.

  Rembrandt nudged Ox forward, then indicated that the others follow. He brought up the rear, walking backwards so that he could get a clear view the way they’d come. There was no movement, no sounds other than the forced breathing through his respirator. Arriving at the doorway, he swung around and saw that his team had already progressed into an annex hallway. The walls on the far side stood six feet tall in some places, but were mostly knee high in others. Through the gaps Rembrandt could see across the wasteland of Bloomsbury and Gower Streets, all the way across to Bedford Square. Funny, he thought, how he could recall the names of streets, but he couldn’t fathom his own surname from the mist that wreathed through his mind. He checked the schematic map once again. Somewhere ahead of them lay the doorway down to the catacombs. He tried to approximate the location from the remains of the walls and couldn’t. Instead he began studying the floor. Through the dirt on the tiles he could see a darker coloured border inlaid in the floor. He moved forward and scuffed the ground with his heel. The line was unbroken. He repeated the motion every few feet and found a spot devoid of the dark tile. He backtracked a foot or two and scraped away the muck and again found the border and saw that it made a sharp ninety-degree angle. Here the path once opened into another door; the one indicated on his map. The opening was choked by fallen masonry.

  ‘Kwolek, Walker, guard the approaches. Ox, Bowlam, you’re with me on excavation duty.’ While Kwolek retreated a few yards to protect their route in, Walker moved further along the corridor and set up guard down there. Ox placed the Universal Key on the ground and set to shoveling aside the piles of stone without comment. Rembrandt looked at Bowlam expectantly, before the man grunted, slung his carbine and then joined in the heavy lifting. Rembrandt joined the two: always of the opinion he’d never ask his team to do anything he himself wouldn’t.

  The rocks were piled loosely, and were easily shifted. They threw them aside, piling them on the far side of the gap in the wall, ensuring their passage out wasn’t impeded. Ten minutes later they discovered an ancient door buried in looser grit and shards of stone. When the building had collapsed the heavy door had pulled down the lintel, but had also served to block the stairwell immediately behind it. Between them, Ox and Bowlam jostled the door from under the loose dirt, and once it was free Ox hefted it up and placed it across a gap in the opposite wall. Rembrandt unslung his gun and peered down into the lightless depths beneath the museum. Flashlights were a luxury in the nuclear devastated Old City, but for their purpose Guvnor Semple had issued Rembrandt’s team with Maglite’s from The Castle storeroom. Rembrandt took out his torch and thumbed it on, guiding the tight beam down into the deep well below. The stairs were clear of rubble apart from a scattering of shards that fell from the door as Ox had pulled it free. The older dust on the steps was unmarked by any sign of passage. This was the first time that anyone had descende
d into the bowels of the museum since President Valentin Pavlov sent his nuclear missiles against the West.

  ‘Walker, Kwolek, stay here. Shout out if anyone comes. Lads –’ Rembrandt touched both Bowlam and Oxford on their shoulders ‘– you’re with me. Ox, bring the ram, we might need it.’

  While Ox retrieved the bright orange ram, Rembrandt led the way down. Bowlam glanced once at Walker, then followed.

  ‘Watch yourselves, you guys,’ Kwolek called after Ox. The big man ducked his head, embarrassed that she’d shown him such attention. As he went down the stairs he could hear Walker chuckling, the noise ugly through the respirator. Ox hurried after the Chief and Bowlam who were already near the bottom of the stairs.

  Rembrandt swept the way ahead with the flashlight beam. Dust motes danced through the shaft of light, fluorescent, like stars in an undiscovered galaxy. The floor hadn’t witnessed the passage of feet for years, the accumulation of time showing as a layer of silty-earth on the original linoleum. He felt it was safe to proceed. He counted off doors. Eight down on the right hand side he paused and he shone the light over a small plaque at head height. “B4” the sign indicated. Rembrandt double-checked the schematic map and saw he’d found the correct door. He touched the handle, but it was solid in his grip. He tried pressing against the heavy wood fronted by sheet steel – a fireproof barrier to protect the items within – and found it immovable.

  He beckoned Ox forward. ‘Do your stuff, big man.’

  Oxford shuffled into position, adjusting the Universal Key in his grip. He held the ram low near to his hip, judging the position of the lock, then swung the heavy steel ram forward, curving it up and around to hit just below the handle. The impact of steel on steel resounded down the narrow passage. The door didn’t budge.