It’s a shame he must die.
*
Judd can’t believe pointing at the jet worked, though he’s not sure he can classify it as a success as it may have only extended their lives by a couple of seconds. Instead of being shot by Ponytail they’re about to be crushed by a very large airliner.
They sprint towards the stairwell but it doesn’t seem to be getting any closer. Christ, it feels like they’re running on the spot. Judd glances up at the jet and is shocked by how close it is. The only positive thing is that he can now see it’s a Fed Ex Boeing 777 cargo jet so there are no passengers on board, just an unlucky flight crew who are surely wondering why one of their engines just exploded and why the remaining engine sounds like it’s devouring itself from within.
*
Corey sprints hard, but knows they’re not going to make it to the stairs in time. They’re about to die and he has just one regret: that he won’t see Lola again, even as ‘friends’. In spite of everything that happened last night he hopes she’s okay.
Corey glances up one last time.
The jet fills his world.
*
18
The 777’s right engine detonates, ejects flaming chunks of metal in every direction, including straight up, into the wing. There’s a pregnant pause - then the av-gas inside the wing’s fuel tank explodes and the aircraft vaporises in a vivid starburst.
For a fleeting moment a second sun hangs in the sky above Los Angeles. Then it dissipates and Judd and Corey slow to a jog as they realise the jet no longer exists in any meaningful way.
A burning section of the tail is the only part that isn’t vaporised and it cartwheels into the brush where good old Ponytail took cover. A moment later the brush bursts into flames.
Judd wonders if he survived, hopes he didn’t, but doesn’t want to take a chance if he did. ‘Come on, gotta keep moving.’ Corey nods and they resume running. They reach the stairs then climb to the overpass.
First order of business for Judd is to call Rhonda. He’s sure she’s airborne, but just maybe she isn’t, so it’s worth trying to warn her about what’s happening here. He pulls out his iPhone, dials - and it goes straight to voicemail. He leaves a message for her to call him urgently, then turns to Corey: ‘The guy said 1138 South Carmelina, right?’
Corey glances at him. ‘What? Which guy?’
‘The dead guy.’
A blank expression from the Australian.
‘From the ambulance?’
‘Oh. Yeah. 1138.’ Corey takes a moment, then regards Judd suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘It’s just - I know South Carmelina. It’s right off Santa Monica Boulevard. I was thinking we should go there.’
‘Why in all the world would we do that?’
‘To find the counteragent.’
‘What counteragent?’
‘The one the guy was talking about.’
‘Which guy?’
‘The dead guy! From the ambulance.’
‘Oh, right. The “counteragent” to “stop the explosions”. That’s “hidden in his freezer”.’ Corey makes air quotes as he speaks. ‘You actually believe all that?’
‘Well, not when you say it with air quotes.’
‘So tell me, is it behind the cookie dough ice-cream or the rum and raisin?’
‘He was right about the ponytailed guy.’
‘That guy could have been anyone. His girlfriend’s ex, an angry bookie, a bloody debt collector.’
‘Then why did he try and kill us?’
‘I don’t know! Because he’s a dickhead? Because we know he topped that guy? Because Americans are always shooting people they’ve never met?’
‘No. He did it because he thinks the dead guy told us about the counteragent. We have to get over to South Carmelina and check it out.’
Corey’s eyes narrow, unconvinced. ‘Mate, it’s not our job.’
‘But I think-’
‘Not. Our. Job.’
They continue up the stairwell in silence. Judd knows Corey’s right to be sceptical, but there was something about what the dead guy said, or maybe it was the way he said it, that makes Judd think he was telling the truth, as crazy as it sounds. ‘So what do you want to do?’
Corey glances at him. ‘What I want to do is - well, I’d like, I guess I - I want to make sure Lola’s okay.’
‘The girl who’s going out with the movie star?’
Corey nods.
‘She blew you off, buddy.’
Corey stares at him unhappily.
‘What’s that face? She did. Let the Blue Tornado make sure she’s okay.’
‘Blue Cyclone.’
‘Who cares? Really. I don’t mean to be harsh but come on. She’s got a boyfriend.’
They reach the top of the stairs and step onto the footpath. Judd turns to the Australian. ‘So what’s it going to be? Cookie dough or rum and raisin?’
Corey studies him for a long moment, then smiles resignedly. ‘I’ve always been partial to cookie dough.’
Judd’s happy. ‘Okay.’
‘Which way?’
Judd points to the right and they set off across the overpass.
Spike barks.
Corey nods at the dog. ‘He’s hoping for lemon sorbet.’
*
Kilroy ploughed into the scrub like a rampaging elephant as the Fed-Ex jet approached, then dived to the ground when he heard the explosion. He can now smell smoke and hear the crackle of burning undergrowth so he pulls himself up and moves fast, works his way up the incline through the brush then pushes himself out onto the freeway.
His eyes flick to the spot where he last saw the two men. Of course there’s no sign of them - no, there they are! Running along the overpass above, just their shoulders and heads visible.
‘Shit!’ He swings his pistol up, aims.
They pass behind a burning truck and disappear into the haze.
‘Damn it!’ Kilroy moves fast, makes a beeline for his Prius. He needs to deal with this Atlantis 4 problem ASAP.
*
Judd and Corey jog along the freeway. Spike leads the way.
Corey pulls Bowen’s iPhone from his back pocket, swipes it to life, scrolls through the address book and finds Lola’s number. His finger hovers above the call button -
No. Judd’s right. She made her choice. He slides the phone into his back pocket and runs on.
*
19
Lola has it all organised.
Half an hour ago she closed the sale of a raunchy e-book, originally a raunchy piece of Hunger Games fan fiction, to Paramount Studios for three million against six. It was an exhausting, week-long auction so, as a treat, she’s decided to give herself the afternoon off. She has a date with Scott Ford tonight, only their third, so she’s going to have a manicure, pedicure and facial, her first in over a year, at that Korean place on Doheny she keeps hearing about, then head home, take a long bath and a short nap. As her Grandmama used to say, she doesn’t want ‘to hold back on the pretty’.
Scott said their date is going to be a ‘big surprise’ so she can only wonder what that means, though he’s well known for making extensive use of his Lear jet. Perhaps they’ll head to Vegas for the night. Or Acapulco. Lola doesn’t care where they go, she’s just looking forward to seeing him - and finding out if she actually likes the guy.
She isn’t entirely sure. They’ve spent a lot of time on the phone, but not much time face to face, so tonight’s a chance to confirm she’s made the right decision. The reason she wants to be certain is that she’s been thinking about Corey. A lot. She really enjoyed his company last night - right up until the moment she dropped the bomb and told him she had a boyfriend. In fact, she’s been thinking about him so much she’s worried she might have made the wrong call.
Oh, man. Did she make the wrong call? And if she did, is there any way on God’s green earth she could walk it back? Could Corey ever forgive her for the embarrassment she caused him last ni
ght? She’s not sure she could -
Stop it. She needs to stop thinking about it. She’s seeing Scott and he’s great. Sure, the Australian is tall and charming and funny, but she completely blew it with him so, end of story. Fugetaboutit. She pushes it from her mind and her thoughts turn to why she’s so über-successful in her career but an abject failure in her personal life. She’s twenty-nine and yet to have a regular, happy relationship that lasts for more than six months. What’s up with that?
And what is up with this traffic? It’s moving at a snail’s pace. She glances at the diamond-encrusted platinum Rolex Day-Date on her wrist, a watch Scott sent over after their second date. It’s a little too blingy for her taste, but it’s the thought that counts so she’s been wearing it. She’s running late for her appointment at the nail joint -
Boom. A bright flash lights up the street and her world shudders. A wall of fire rises before her as the car in front explodes.
‘What the hell-?’
A truck two lanes to the left detonates like it’s been hit by a missile. Flaming shards of metal rain down on her Lexus. She looks down Doheny Drive, sees another explosion in the distance, then another, then something catches her attention: the exhaust of every car she can see is purple. Some are light purple, some are dark purple and some are almost black.
Her driver’s door is wrenched open by a wild-eyed young man. He’s tall, white and well dressed, looks like a lawyer, definitely a white-collar professional. ‘Get out!’ He jabs a small penknife towards her. Make that white-collar criminal. She doesn’t argue, just nods and grabs her handbag from the passenger seat -
‘Now!’ White Collar yanks her from the vehicle and she crashes to the bitumen, grazes an elbow. The man climbs into her Lexus, slams the door shut and accelerates away.
‘Fucker!’ She catches sight of the tailpipe as it departs. The exhaust is a dark purple colour, then turns black -
Boom. The car detonates in a vivid fireball. ‘Oh!’ Lola recoils, shields her face from the heat blast. The Lexus grinds to a halt and the driver’s door swings open. White Collar lurches out of the vehicle, his body completely alight. He staggers across the road for a couple of metres, keels over and slumps to the ground.
Lola’s stunned, horrified and relieved in equal measure - being carjacked never felt so lucky. She takes a moment to process what just happened and realises she can’t. The colour of the exhaust was purple, then it became darker, then it turned black - and then the car exploded? Is that right? Could that be right?
Another explosion rocks the road nearby. She instinctively ducks and shields her face, realises the air reverberates with the constant bang and crack of explosions, both distant and close. What the hell is happening?
She drags in a deep breath, rises off the roadway and makes it to the footpath. She must let people know what’s happening, how the exhaust turns black and then the car explodes. She pulls her iPhone from her bag and studies the screen. It has service. She swipes it open, accesses her address book and remembers the woman she met a while back, who works for CNN as a news editor. She has her number. She’ll call her. That’s the right place to start. She flicks her way through the names, searches for the woman. What was it? Cindy, Candy - Stacey! Stacey something. Kagan! Stacey Kagan. Lola finds the number and dials. The call goes directly to voicemail. Lola speaks as clearly as possible, explains what’s going on.
Boom. Another explosion shakes the street to her left. She needs to get away from here now. She runs. Burning cars clog the road as shell-shocked people mill around like zombies. Lola shouts at a group as she passes by: ‘If the exhaust turns black the car explodes! Tell everyone!’ They just look back at her dully.
She runs on, then realises she doesn’t know where she’s running to. She needs to get off the street, out of harm’s way, but her house is miles from here. Her grandfather’s place isn’t, it’s only twenty minutes away on foot, give or take. She inherited it a few months back. It’s empty, awaiting a renovation before it’s rented or sold. She could head there -
Boom. Another explosion shakes the air as she approaches an intersection. The smoking wrecks of three cars block the road. A telephone pole is on fire. Two bodies lie on the bitumen, burning. Smoke drifts across the road. It looks like a carefully staged scene from a Michael Bay extravaganza. It’s not. It’s real, and it’s the most terrible thing she has ever seen. She sprints past the horror and makes up her mind. She’s going to her grandfather’s place. Right now.
Doheny is gridlocked with cars, many on fire. How did this happen 50 fast? She must get word out about the exhaust. She wishes she’d embraced social media more wholeheartedly than the MySpace profile she’d never once updated. If she were on Twitter she could tell the world instantly.
Scott Ford. He has thirty-three million followers on Twitter. If he can tweet about the exhaust changing colour it could make a huge difference. She dials his number.
Boom! An explosion right behind her. She’s hit hard in the back, slapped to the ground, the wind knocked out of her. Her ears ring as she gulps air, tries to catch her breath, looks back through the smoke, sees she was struck by a car seat - with a young guy still strapped to it. That’s not good. She takes a moment to recover her composure, stands shakily and checks the guy. He’s dead.
Smash. That’s not an explosion. She turns. A young white man sprints towards her from a shattered shop window cradling what looks like a Nespresso coffee machine. A shopkeeper, an older Asian gentleman with a severe buzz cut, swings out of the store’s front door and aims a pistol at him - as he runs right past her.
‘Oh shit!’ Lola ducks low. The shopkeeper fires and Nespresso man is hit in the back of the leg and drops the machine, which shatters on the ground beside her. Nespresso man keeps moving, limp-runs away as the shopkeeper brandishes the weapon and screams after him in Korean.
This is insane. Lola stands, keeps her head low, passes the shopkeeper and runs on. She remembers watching the 1992 LA riots on television when she was a kid and never forgot the crazy mob mentality that spiralled out of control and killed, if she remembered correctly, fifty people. Whatever’s happening in the city right now has the potential to be worse than that. She can feel it.
She realises even her grandfather’s house is too far away. She needs to get off the street now. She scans the area, searches for a place to take refuge, if only temporarily, that isn’t a store or a house with a gun-toting owner on the lookout for looters.
A tall white and blue building appears through the smoke that blankets the street, maybe three hundred metres away. It has - she counts - six floors. Is it an office building? Whatever it is she’s sure she’ll be safer inside it than out here. She can wait for things to cool down a little, make some calls, get Scott to tweet about the black exhaust.
Boom. Another explosion shocks the air. She feels the sting of debris on her cheek. Man, that was close! She sprints towards the building, cuts through the haze, fear turning in her chest. If she can just get to it in one piece she’ll be right. She’ll be right. Corey said it last night when she blew him off. She wonders if he’s all right now. She wants to call him, make sure he’s okay, but, really, would he even pick up? He didn’t even want to be friends. Then she remembers he doesn’t have a mobile phone.
The building looms out of the haze and suddenly she’s in front of it. She scans the flagstone wall for a way in but can see no obvious doors or windows -
There! What’s that? She sees a vehicle has hit the building, dented a metal roller door and created a gaping hole. There’s no one inside the car and both doors are open, surely the first time a Mercedes Gullwing has been abandoned with keys in the ignition.
She has a way in, except she’ll need to roll the Merc out of the hole to gain access. She leans in, thumps the gearbox into neutral, releases the handbrake until it clears the hole where the dented roller door has pulled away from its tracks, leaves herself a half-metre gap, then pulls on the handbrake again. She ducks low,
works her way through the hole and enters the building.
She instantly feels safer; the explosions outside now remote. She looks around, realises it isn’t an office building, it’s a self-storage facility. There doesn’t seem to be anyone around. She knew these kinds of places didn’t need many people to operate but she’d have thought there’d be at least one person there, just to keep an eye on the joint?
Boom. The explosion is vast, comes from her left and blows in part of the flagstone wall. She’s knocked to the floor.
Crunch.
‘Ahhh!’ Something very heavy lands on her left leg. The pain is horrible and instantly she feels dizzy. She can’t see anything through the haze of smoke and dust and she can’t move either - she’s pinned to the ground. The dizziness gets the better of her and she decides she just might have a little nap. As she closes her eyes she wonders if she’ll ever open them again.
*
20
The Baldwin Hills Overlook offers a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of Los Angeles. Actually it’s not quite three hundred and sixty degrees, more like three hundred and twenty, but you can pretty much see everything that’s going on in the city.
Bunsen stands atop the overlook and takes in the destruction he has wrought. Phase Two has been a total success. The Swarm has performed exactly as intended, though watching it work its terrible magic has been difficult. The human toll - just an abstract idea previously - is very real to him now. Even so, he has no regrets.
The plan was, simply, to make people switch off their combustion engines. That’s why the Swarm was designed to turn a vehicle’s exhaust purple as soon as the engine was infected, then black before it exploded. It was a warning, so people understood that if they didn’t turn off their engines they would die. Of course, for the warning to be effective, some people needed to die early in the process.
Kilroy didn’t agree with this. Even though he is a stone-cold killer with years of experience in the ways and means of death, he baulks at hurting anyone he believes is innocent. That’s why he wanted Bunsen to release the video this morning. Kilroy had created a two-minute Flash animation that explained the virus, what the purple and black colour of the exhaust meant, told people to turn off their combustion engines before there was any chance they could explode and urged them to leave Los Angeles ASAP.
Combustion Page 10
