*
Spike bounds over to Corey. His master is unconscious.
The dog barks.
There’s no response.
Spike turns, sees the cuff of Corey’s left jeans leg is on fire. He barks again.
Corey does not wake up.
Spike trots over to the left cuff, assumes the position and releases a short squirt of urine. The flames are instantly extinguished - but Corey does not wake.
The dog lies down beside him.
*
28
Finally.
It took Bunsen five one-hundred-litre rhino drums to do it, but the Item is now filled with the Swarm.
He removes the electric water pump’s hose, screws on the radiator cap, then uses an oxy-welder to seal it tight. He eases the trolley loaded with the Item out onto the helipad. It’s both heavy and unwieldy, but he eventually parks it beside the Tyrannosaur, where Enrico continues to remove the water tank from the airframe. Bunsen then pulls out a swathe of black-green netting from the trolley’s bottom shelf, which will be used to camouflage the Item’s true shape and nature.
He returns to the garage and rolls out a second trolley. The contents of this one are not as visually arresting as the Item, but just as important to the mission. Bunsen deposits two long bags, one black, the other light grey, into the chopper’s rear cabin, then joins Enrico in removing the tank. Once it’s detached they will fasten the Item to the Tyrannosaur’s airframe.
He glances at his Patek. The only thing he’s concerned about at this point is the same thing that has concerned him all day: Kilroy. After sending a text about making sure Bunsen posted the video online, the old guy has gone AWOL again, hasn’t responded to any texts or picked up his phone.
The old man is really cutting it fine. He should be here by now.
*
29
‘Come on, Scott! Where are you?’
Lola turns and looks at the fire. The flames are much higher now. The insulation is well alight and produces a thick blanket of acrid smoke that hangs in the air and smells like cancer.
She coughs, pushes on the beam that lies across her thigh, can’t even lift the damn thing off her leg now. She has no energy and feels nauseous, the charming effects of crush syndrome kicking in as it dumps those deadly chemicals into her system.
She hasn’t heard anything from Scott since she spoke to him last. That must have been thirty-five, forty minutes ago. She guesses that’s how long it would take for him to get here on foot, which means he should be here any minute. She’d tried 911 a couple more times but couldn’t get through.
The flames flare and the smoke billows. Lola realises she’s not going to burn to death, or die from the crush injury, she’s going to be asphyxiated. She pushes her face low to the ground, the air a little fresher down there, and takes in shallow breaths.
‘Come on, Scott.’ Her head throbs and her lungs are tight and her eyes sting. Jesus Christ, she came in here to take shelter, not to die -
A sound, to the far right.
She turns to it.
Twenty metres away a towering figure is silhouetted through the smoke haze.
She’d know that outline anywhere.
Scott Ford.
The Blue Cyclone.
Yes! He came! Just in the nick of time. The guy is a hero, on screen and off. He has something in his hands. A long cylinder - a fire extinguisher! He rushes towards the flames, releases a blast of fire retardant, instantly douses them. He pivots, cuts through the smoke towards her, drops the extinguisher, grabs the beam across her thigh and in one fluid motion lifts it off and tosses it to the side.
Lola’s relief is overwhelming. She looks up as he drops through the haze to kneel beside her.
‘G’day.’
‘Corey?’
The Australian looks like he’s been to hell and back, his face covered in cuts and soot, blood and grime, his hair singed, clothes ripped, torn and burned. Then he grins his crooked grin. ‘Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.’
Lola takes him in, stunned, thrilled and confused all at once. It’s the strangest feeling.
He sees it. ‘You look surprised.’
‘I was expecting —’ Someone else. She doesn’t finish the sentence, changes the subject instead. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I’m pretty sure it was a Chevy Impala. Or maybe a Buick Riviera. Either way, the explosion was a humdinger. Took a few minutes to wake up. Still feel a bit groggy, actually. How are you?’
‘Better now. Thank you.’ She nods at the fire extinguisher. ‘Where’d you find that?’
‘It was on the wall beside the roller door.’
‘How’d you know I was here?’
‘I, it was - I heard your message. On Bowen’s phone.’
‘Oh, right. Where is he?’
*
Corey realises he should have devised a lie so he could delay telling her about Bowen until a more suitable time and place. But then he’s terrible at lying, and when he thinks about it there will never be a suitable time and place for news like this. So he tries to find the right words. ‘We were at CNN and - and there was an explosion.’
‘Oh, God.’ Her hand covers her mouth. ‘Is he okay?’
Corey blinks, then shakes his head.
‘No.’ She buries her head in her hands, grief-stricken.
‘It was - it happened fast. He didn’t suffer. We tried to help, but there was nothing —’
‘He’s my best friend.’ Her tears flow.
Corey rests a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Spike moves to Lola, nuzzles against her leg. She rubs his head absently.
A moment passes.
‘I didn’t want to tell you like this. I just didn’t know how else to do it.’
‘It’s okay.’ She wipes her eyes. ‘I’m glad you did.’
A harsh squawk bursts from Corey’s pants.
Lola looks at him. ‘What was that?’
‘Sorry.’ He dives a hand into his trouser pocket and pulls out Ponytail’s walkie-talkie. A distant voice echoes from its speaker: ‘Where are you? I haven’t heard from you in over an hour. We’re on the way to Moreno High now. Do you need assistance?’
Corey takes it in gravely, thinks aloud. ‘Moreno High. Damn. He was right. They really are going there.’
Lola looks at Corey, then the walkie-talkie, then Corey again. ‘Who’s going where? Who is that?’
‘The people responsible for the explosions.’
‘Say what?’ She looks at him like he’s mad.
Corey sees it. ‘I know it sounds crazy, but Judd’s on the way there and I need to tell him they’re coming.’
She’s confused. ‘To Moreno High School?’
‘Yes, but my phone’s screwed. Do you have Judd’s number?’
‘Um, no. We dealt with him through a NASA liaison. And I don’t have that number either.’ She still doesn’t really understand what’s going on. ‘Why do you need to tell him they’re coming?’
Corey’s expression is grim. ‘Because I’m pretty sure they will try to kill him.’
‘What?’ She half laughs as she says it because it sounds so strange. ‘What are you talking about? Why would they do that?’
‘Because they have something else planned and he wants to stop it.’
‘What do they have planned?’
He opens his hands wide, palms up. ‘No idea.’ He nods at her phone. ‘Can I borrow that for a sec?’ She passes it over and he launches the map app, works the screen.
She watches him. ‘What are you doing?
‘I need to go there.’
‘Moreno High?’
‘Yes. Can I… run there?’
‘Not unless you’re training for a marathon. It’s on the other side of town.’
Corey stops working the iPhone’s screen and exhales. ‘Man, I wish I had my chopper.’
‘You couldn’t fly it anyway. Everything with a combustion engine explodes.’
>
‘Not everything.’ From his pocket he draws the aluminium canister containing the counteragent. ‘Not if I use this.’
‘And that is - what?’
‘A counteragent to the virus that’s making the engines explode.’
She studies him for a long moment.
‘I wouldn’t believe me either.’
‘No, I… actually do.’
‘Then why are you looking at me like I’m insane?’
‘I’m not. I’m having a thought - which I’m turning into an idea.’
‘And it is?’
‘Hero car.’
His brow furrows. ‘You’ve lost me. What does that mean?’
‘It means I think I know a quick way to Moreno High.’ She stands, gingerly puts weight on her injured leg and winces.
‘How’s it feeling?’
‘Fuck! is how it’s feeling, excuse my French.’ She puts a little more weight on it. ‘I need to run it off. Come on, follow me.’
*
They move quickly, navigate the dent in the roller door and step out onto the sidewalk. The sky is slate grey with a purple hue, much darker than it was before Lola took cover in the building. Fat tendrils of purple-grey smoke hang above the bitumen like serpents in the still afternoon air. The road is littered with the burning shells of vehicles, including the charred remains of the semitrailer that exploded and caused Lola to be trapped in the first place.
‘This way.’ She points them left and they jog down a quiet side street that has not seen much action. Even with a painful leg, Lola is quick. Corey follows, a little confused. ‘So we’re going to the school?’
‘Yes. It won’t take long. I want you to tell me everything, but I need to make a call first.’
‘Sure. Okay.’ Corey gets the hint and drops behind her a polite distance, Spike in tow.
She dials the phone and puts it to her ear. The call is answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Scott?’
‘This is he.’
She can barely hear his voice over a high-pitched flapping noise. It’s a familiar sound, but she can’t quite place it. ‘Hey, it’s Lola.’
‘How are you, sweetness? I was just about to call.’
‘Are you close?’
‘Well, we haven’t made a lot of headway —’
‘Are the roads gridlocked?’
‘Yeah, it’s pretty bad, the gridlock.’
The flapping returns and momentarily drowns out his voice. What is that sound?
‘I can’t hear you. Where are you? Are you okay?’
‘We’re - yeah - we’re fine.’
‘I got out.’
‘That’s great to hear.’
The flapping returns, and just like that she knows what the sound is. ‘Are you on a boat!’
‘Actually it’s a yacht.’ The noise is a sail flapping in the breeze. ‘I was told it’s the safest place to be at the moment. No engines. Just wind power.’
There is a long silence.
Lola breaks it. ‘So, let me recap. I was trapped under a beam in a building and you said you’d come and help me, but instead you went sailing. Is that right?’
‘Oh, don’t be that way, sweetness. It was just a management call.’
‘You manage yourself.’
‘I didn’t say it was an easy call, but I knew you’d be okay. You’re resourceful. That’s what I like about you.’
She keeps jogging and takes a breath. Her first impulse is to launch the full Bitchkrieg, verbally destroy him, ridicule his acting as a pants-down humiliation, tell him the town regards him as the Derek Zoolander of action movies and wonders if he’ll ever perfect a second facial expression, explain that no one except him thinks Avatar would have been better if the humans had defeated ‘those blue hippies’, clarify that he only has a career because God hates Mel Gibson and remind him that with every moment he grows older and less worthy of the public’s attention.
But what, exactly, would be the point of that? Sure, she’d feel like a hero for fifteen seconds, but she works in a business where criminals and bullies roam free and the careers of good women die like dogs in the street, or at least fade into anonymity, if they don’t work every angle to keep their head above water. As Scott is currently the biggest gorilla in every room of this town, she should hold on to this golden chit and cash it in the future, not blow it on some meaningless tirade now. So she decides to cool her jets and play the long game. She feigns bad reception: ‘I — an’t hear yo— Sco —’ and ends the call.
She looks up, takes in a gigantic billboard of Scott Ford as The Blue Cyclone, which looms above the roadway. It must be ten metres long and three metres tall and highlights his ripped and buffed physique under blue tights.
It’s on fire.
She watches the billboard burn and has an epiphany. She’s an idiot. That guy was never right for her. How could she have not seen it? Well, she knows how: she was swayed by all the wrong things. The guy is good-looking, he’s an action star, he’s successful and has plenty of industry cache. She had wilfully disregarded the fact he was vain and shallow and didn’t have her best interests at heart. She knows there’s only one thing she can do about that. From now on she must date men instead of boys. The problem is she’s not very good at working out which is which because age has nothing to do with identifying them.
There was one guy she knew who was a man, the guy she’d worked with for the last decade. She turns to Corey behind her. ‘Sorry about that. Can you tell me what happened to Matty? Please?’
‘Of course.’ The Australian catches up to her, Spike right beside him, and lays it out in broad brushstrokes. She appreciates that he doesn’t weigh her down with the awful specifics, but she needs enough detail to get it straight in her mind, so she interjects from time to time and asks for clarification.
When he finishes she doesn’t say anything for a good while. They run on in silence, both breathing hard now, the distant bang and pop of explosions filling the space between them. She wipes at her wet cheeks, realises it’s going to take a long time to come to terms with what happened. She takes a breath and pushes the pain way down, so she doesn’t have to think about it now. She needs to concentrate on getting through this day in one piece, and helping the man who just helped her. She turns to Corey. ‘Thank you. You’re being - great.’
‘No wuckers.’
‘After last night I didn’t think you’d talk to me again.’
‘Well, you said you wanted to be mates, so, you know, this is mates.’
‘Guess it is.’ And it is mates. She can see the spark has left his blue eyes, the one that was there every time they’d met in the past. She now realises how much she misses it. It’s gone and has been replaced with a polite, reserved distance.
Corey scans the destruction on the roadway. ‘Gotta say I’m looking forward to getting out of this town.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘We’re going to head down to the Florida Keys.’
‘For a holiday?’
‘No. I’m thinking about moving down there. Maybe start a business.’
‘Right. Well, great. It is beautiful.’ This news actually throws Lola more than what just happened with Scott, which had been disappointing, but predictable. This is - well, an unhappy surprise. But then what did she expect? Last night she’d dropped the Aussie like a hot potato and now he’s moving on.
*
Corey feels surprisingly good. He’s happy he was able to help Lola out of her predicament but the fact is she chose another guy over him, who, he is almost certain, she was just on the phone to. Judd was right. He has to let it go and move on and that’s exactly what he is doing.
They turn a corner and stop dead. Before them a gigantic sound stage - it must be forty metres high - burns fiercely and pumps black smoke into the sky. Again, there are no fire engines or fire fighters in sight.
Corey takes it in. ‘What is this place?’
Lola looks around, stu
nned. ‘What’s left of Twentieth Century Fox.’
Corey sees the company’s logo and immediately recognises it from a bunch of his favourite movies - Star Wars, Aliens, Independence Day. He remembers hearing something about the guy who owned the joint. He can’t remember his name but he used to be an Aussie but decided to become a Yank. He must have had a really good reason because Corey couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do that.
Lola points the way forward. ‘Down here.’
They run on, pass through the main gate. There are no guards around and the boom has been smashed by a speeding vehicle, which, it would seem, then exploded and burned the guardhouse to the ground. The place is all but deserted. Two vehicles lie smouldering on the road that cuts through the studio, another three buildings are well alight from vehicles that have exploded nearby, and a smattering of people mill around, dazed and confused. No one tries to stop them, no one even tries to speak to them.
‘Is it much further?’
Lola leads them onwards. ‘Almost there. So, tell me, how did you end up with this counteragent?’
‘Well, right after the CNN building collapsed we saw a school bus …’
*
30
Kilroy drags himself clear of the godforsaken tyre. It took much longer than he expected. Pushing the damn thing over his elbows proved to be the hardest part.
He reaches into his jacket pocket for his phone. Not there. ‘Shit!’ He left it in the car. He searches for his walkie-talkie. He knew there was a possibility the mobile phone system might crash after the Swarm was released so he’d prepared a back-up plan. All members of the crew were given a small, hand-held Midland walkie-talkie, chosen for its thirty-kilometre range.
It’s gone. What the hell happened to it?
The Atlantis 4 boys, no doubt.
‘Pricks.’
Hopefully his iPhone is still in the car, in one piece.
He pulls himself up, moves through the parking garage stiffly, his back aching, and exits to see what is left of both cars. Not much. They are burned up, almost unrecognisable. His iPhone is clearly toast. Now he’s going to have to find a payphone to call Bunsen. A working payphone? In LA! Even on a good day, when the city isn’t in chaos, that’s an all but impossible task.
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