by Adam Millard
“Is this going to go on much longer?” Bobby said. “Only we’re in the middle of some sort of apocalypse.”
“And Will,” the sergeant continued, “with his loveable charm and propensity to eat anything put in front of him. I once watched him eat a hundred chicken wings without breaking a sweat. And you know what? He had coleslaw on the side. Will, I love you man!”
“Okay,” Barry said, ushering the sergeant away, forcing him down into the devastated cabin where a half-finished bottle of scotch would hopefully put him the fuck to sleep.
“Right!” Bobby said, as if watching the fight between the big guy and the gorilla had somehow rejuvenated him. “Let’s get this trawler moving again. We need to pick up as many survivors as we can. These animals aren’t going to defeat us, not today, not on my watch!”
It wasn’t quite a Martin Sheen speech, but it would have to do.
18
The library was deserted when Brandie arrived. Well, that wasn’t quite true; there was an elderly gentleman floating in the corner, obviously dead. Whatever erudite paper he’d been reading the moment the tsunami battered the building was now soggy and draped across his shoulder. Hail, Caesar!
All these books, Brandie thought. Ruined, not even good enough to palm off on some unsuspecting charity shop. Shakespearian tomes drifted past as she made her way across the room. As if for no other purpose than to wind her up, a copy of Melville’s Moby Dick hit her in the face. Before she reached the stairs, she was clobbered by a hardback edition of The Old Man and the Sea, a paperback copy of Treasure Island, and three hardcover copies of Master and Commander. If God was up there, he was taking the piss.
Dragging her sodden body up the stairs, Brandie felt heavy, cumbersome, as if she wasn’t a slight woman at all but a double wardrobe filled to the brim with gold bullion. The water was starting to affect her, both physically and mentally. How Kevin Costner managed in that film of his (Waterland? Watertown? Waterglobe?) was beyond her.
As Brandie reached the first floor, she collapsed in an untidy heap. Lying there for a moment, she listened as something exploded in the distance. Things were going from bad to worse, and still there was no sign of help: no rescue teams dangling from choppers and hoisting people to safety, no hovercrafts speeding across town. She couldn’t help thinking that things would be altogether different if this was London. The capital would have been teeming with emergency services by now; the Queen on her way to Starbucks to change gowns and get a crown-polish. But this wasn’t London. This was Cromer, and it was piss-drenched.
Up to the second floor Brandie went, not knowing what to expect when she arrived. Donkadonk hadn’t told her who would be there to receive her or if they would receive her at all. It might very well be a case of “if your name’s not down, you’re not coming in.” In which case, she would be no worse off than she already was, and she could at least tell those hiding away safely up there while the rest of the town was drowned or devoured what she thought of them.
But is that not why you’re here? For sanctuary? To continue living whilst your fellow man is gobbled up by crocs and lions and bears, oh my!?
Yes, well, it was very much a case of every man for himself right now. The only other person she cared about was missing, presumed dead or dying. Brandie’s mission was to find out what was happening from the people on the second floor, who was coming to save them, how something so terrible could happen in this day and age, and if anyone had a change of underwear, preferably dry and saltless. Once all that was in place, she would head back out in search of Roger.
Up on the second floor, where not even a splash of water had touched the russet carpet (though coffee-stains were ubiquitous), three large oak doors stood at the end of the corridor, but only one drew her eye.
The sign said “OUT OF USE.” There was a small image, spat out by a printer on its last legs by the look of it, of a door with a red X running through it. On that door was a smaller door, again with a red X across it, and so on and so forth until Brandie couldn’t focus any more.
She squelched her way across the landing, took a deep breath, and knocked.
There was a loud thump from the other side of the door, followed by a string of expletives that would have made Gordon Ramsay blush. But then it all fell silent again, leaving Brandie confused and more than a little annoyed.
She hammered again. “I know you’re in there! I just heard you say ʻcuntwaffle.’”
“No you didn’t,” came the reply, followed by several reproachful voices hushing the speaker. They clearly didn’t want to be found, and even though they had, they still refused to acknowledge it.
“Look, I’m alone, and I just need to know what’s going on.” She listened, closed her eyes, and rested her forehead against the cold, oak door. It felt nice, soothing, despite the vibrations thrumming through the bones of the building as the water splashed against it both outside and in.
“Just go away!” a female voice said. She sounded frightened, as if Brandie presented a threat that a roomful of VIPs would in no way be able to deal with. “Wait for help to arrive!”
“The mayor sent me.” It wasn’t exactly the truth. After all, he’d only told her of its whereabouts once his bollocks were swimming past his mouth. Either way, it seemed to work; there were mutterings and whisperings from inside the room as those shacked up in there discussed their predicament.
Eventually, the male speaker said, “Then what’s the password? If Donkadonk sent you, he would have informed you that we wouldn’t let you in, not without the password.”
Shit! What was the password? Brandie knew it started with an E, but the swim over—dodging otters is more painstaking than one might think—had apparently scrubbed it from her memory. “It begins with an E,” Brandie said.
“So do lots of other words,” said the man. “Be more specific.”
It was a name. A little old lady name. Elsa, Elsie, Etta, Edna, Evelyn, Eugenia? Effie, Edwina, Emily, Esta, Elenora, Ettie? Why the fuck do all old lady names start with E?
“Please,” Brandie said, not liking the whiny inflection to her voice. “I had to beat off a mob of horny meerkats just to get here. The mayor is dead, and it was his parting wish for me to make it to this library in one piece.”
“Password?” the female voice said.
Brandie was losing patience. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. The password is…Edie!” Just like that, it came back. Brandie smiled, shook her head, incredulous. The brain was an amazing thing when it wasn’t trying to get one over on you.
Several moments later, there was a clunk—the sound of a lock disengaging—then a raucous din as latches were clicked off, chains slid across, padlocks fumbled with, and what sounded like a bear trap going off. When the door finally opened, Brandie had to step over a pile of chains and locks big enough to give her an altitudinal nosebleed.
Standing in the middle of the room were three men and a woman, all wearing damp suits. The woman was draped with green and brown seaweed, and her long blonde hair was scraped back so harshly that her eyes were pulled wide open, giving her the appearance of someone perpetually terrified. The men, on the other hand, were all interchangeable. Grey hair, bald patches, bright white teeth revealed through lips drawn tightly back. For a moment, Brandie thought she’d stumbled onto the X Factor stage. I hope they don’t expect me to sing.
“So Donkadonk’s dead?” one of the men said, shaking his head. “That’s a shame. He owes me fifty quid.”
Brandie glanced around the room at the vast array of what looked like very expensive equipment. A radio hissed away in the corner, incoherent voices that were neither tangible nor—so it seemed—of this earth. “Have you heard anything from the outside world? Is help coming?”
The men grunted in unison. It was clear that they were already regretting their decision to grant her entry.
“There are boats on the way,” the seaweed woman said. “But we don’t expect they’re in any rush. The prime minister is on his jol
lies in the Maldives, and the rest of the cabinet have decided it’s none of their business.”
“Can they do that?” Brandie was shaking now, more through anger than the fact she was sodden and cold.
“Dear, they’re the Tory party,” one of the men said. “We’re lucky we’re getting boats at all.”
“Bring back Thatcher, I say,” said the portliest of the men. “At least you knew where you stood with her.”
“In the dole queue?” Seaweed Woman said.
Suddenly, the radio crackled into life. The suited VIPs were drawn to it like bibliophiles to a library, quickly surrounding it, awaiting further news. Brandie had lost all hope of finding dry underwear.
“Cromer, are you there?”
Seaweed Woman snatched up the microphone. “Well, of course we bleeding are,” she said. “If you hadn’t noticed, we’re surrounded on all sides by the flipping ocean, not to mention the fact that there appears to be a menagerie out there causing all sorts of trouble.”
Hiss, crackle, hiss. “Yes, about that. Boats are on the way, but there seems to be a little issue.”
Just a little issue, Brandie thought. Nothing to worry about.
The four drenched suit-wearers exchanged glances; Brandie almost felt left out, as if this already-established group were better than her simply because she’d arrived late to the party. “What do you mean: a little issue?” Seaweed Woman said, her eyes doing that thing you only see in daytime soap operas.
“Well, the boats have arrived just outside town, but until the angry monkeys calm down and stop flinging their shit at the crews, they’re refusing to go any further.”
Monkeys? Those were technically Brandie’s responsibility, but surely that only applied when they were behind bars. Prison wardens have nothing to do with paedophiles and car thieves once they’ve been released. Wasn’t this the same, in a bizarre sort of way?
“Oh come on!” Seaweed Woman screeched. “The monkeys are the least of their worries. There are things out there ready to tear them limb from limb.”
“I’ll be sure to let them know,” the radio voice said. “In the meantime, I suggest you stay where you are. We’ll get to you as soon as we can. On the bright side, lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
Seaweed Woman dropped the microphone. “Well, that’s just great,” she said. “The PM's sunning himself in the Maldives, we’re sitting in the middle of the North Sea, and our rescuers are currently moored, waiting for the simians to quit poo-throwing.”
“Well at least we’re safe up here,” one of the men said.
A terrifying roar from the wide-open door suggested otherwise. Brandie turned, the suited hiders staggered away from the still-hissing radio, and all eyes fixed on the beast as it loped into the room.
Bad to worse, Brandie thought as the cheetah locked eyes with her and five sets of bowels suddenly relaxed.
*
Roger felt better once his clothes were back on. There was something surreal about escorting one of Britain’s best-known actresses around his submerged town whilst his flaccid penis slapped his thigh, although he imagined she’d been through worse.
“Where are we going?” Roger asked. He’d been silently following Dench through the hotel hallways for the last ten minutes, trusting that she knew what she was doing, that she had a plan of some sort. But he was pretty sure they had passed Room 237 twice already, which meant either the hotel numbering people had made a slight boo-boo or Dench was taking them in circles.
“We need to find the furthermost point of this building,” Dench said. She licked a finger and held it up to the air, as if testing the wind’s direction. Roger had the sudden urge to just hit her over the head and leave her to her own devices. “From there, we should be able to reach the cathedral. That is where you want to go, is it not?”
It was, but only because he figured that’s where Brandie would go. She had a thing for tall spires and old architecture. The myriad postcards Sellotaped to her locker said as much. Cathedrals, churches, mosques, pylons, anything that ended in a point. Yes, that’s where she would be, safe and sound, or at least sound.
“Why are you helping me?” It was a good question. Why would anyone put her own life at risk just to make him happy?
“I’m not,” she said. “I have this top-secret contingency plan with my people. If ever I’m in trouble, I’m to head for the nearest religious building and they’ll know exactly where to find me.”
“Sounds a little coincidental,” Roger said, frowning.
“Who knows how these things work?” Dench said. “Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure I’m in control of my own actions.”
They passed Room 237 once again a few minutes later. If Dench wasn’t in control of her own actions, Roger wanted a word with the bastard who was.
*
“Don’t move a muscle,” Brandie whispered. The cheetah was circling them, sniffing the air, perhaps trying to decide which one had dropped the guff.
“Are cheetahs like those Pitch Black aliens?” one of the terrified suit-men whispered. “Only sense movement?”
“No,” Brandie said, “but I’m pretty sure it’ll freak out if we start doing the Thriller dance.”
The cheetah kept its distance, at least for now, as it prowled round the room, overturning stacks of books and gently whirring laptops with its nose. Brandie eyed he door, tried to fathom if she had a cat in hell’s chance of making it without losing a foot. She came to the conclusion that yes, she most probably would reach the door, and yes, so would the cheetah. Then a scuffle would ensue, and Brandie didn’t fancy her chances.
There was a sudden crash of plastic and steel as the cheetah latched onto the radio with its savage maw and dragged it onto the carpet, where it fizzed and smoked. A tinny, barely audible, voice whispered, “Cromer? Is everything alright?”
The cheetah nudged the shattered radio parts aside with its head—nothing to eat here. Brandie had a feeling it was simply toying with them, giving them a brief glimpse of hope. In a moment, it would launch into a furious attack, but it couldn’t get them all at once. The trick was to look the least appetising.
A loud, bellowing horn sounded somewhere below. It was so unexpected that the suit-men and Seaweed Woman gasped and whimpered. The cheetah’s ears pricked up; it sensed that it was pushing its luck, that it was best to just eat now before its food got away, and as it rose up on its hind legs. Brandie closed her eyes, knowing that she had a one-in-five chance of staying alive. Good odds, though not for the one.
A shrill scream echoed around the room, followed by the sound of bone snapping, lips smacking, blood spraying. Brandie was running for the open door with her eyes closed, elated that she wasn’t the one that had screamed, slightly angry at herself for not feeling more for the poor Seaweed Woman, who had clearly caught the cheetah’s eye.
As she fell through the door, eyes open now, she realised the suit-men were right behind her. The last one out slammed the door shut, holding onto it as if the cheetah had the means to turn the knob. Brandie didn’t want to be there to find out if it did.
She continued along the hallway, ignoring the squelching sounds from the room behind. Maybe the cheetah would have opted for someone else if the woman hadn’t been so beautifully seasoned.
That’s seaweed for you. A billion Chinese people can’t be wrong.
“Oh my God! It’s eating Lucy! It’s eating Lucy!”
“Shhhhhh,” Brandie said without stopping. “Lucy’s dead. We’re not.” Not yet, anyway. An adult cheetah can eat its way through up to ten pounds of meat per day, and Brandie didn’t think Lucy had much more than that on display.
Down to the first floor they went. Two of the suit-men fell, crumpled at the bottom of the stairs like drunken businessmen. They were none of Brandie’s concern, and she stepped over them to reach the second flight of steps. Her thighs were sore, her head was pounding, and her goddamn damp knickers were chafing so much that she was reluctant to run too fast le
st she split herself in three.
“What made that noise?” the last suit-man asked. “That god-awful horn set the fucking cheetah off!”
Brandie dropped down into the water on the ground-floor and was immediately set upon by a hardcover edition of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. “The cheetah was going to attack anyway,” she said. Whether that was true or not, she had no clue. Primates were her area of expertise. To her, cheetahs were a complete mystery. “Just be thankful it chose her instead of us.”
The suit-man slowly lowered himself into the water, hissed as his crotch broke the surface. “Fuck, that’s cold!”
“Be careful,” Brandie said. “This library has a strange sense of irony.”
Just then, and without warning, a whole bookcase creaked. Brandie turned, saw the shelves collapsing, but there was very little she could do. She screamed, “Look out!” but it was too late. Over a thousand volumes in the Sea Adventures section came crashing down on the suit-man, forcing him beneath the surface of the water, where no amount of complaining would save him.
Brandie made the sign of the cross and swam toward the front door.
The sun almost consumed her wholly as she waded forward, shielding her eyes, trying to discern the floating objects in front of her, whether they were just corpses or the things that made corpses.
Then a massive shadow fell upon her, and her first thought was: hippo. But hippos don’t say, “Do you need rescuing, ma’am?” at least not that Brandie was aware of. Her eyes quickly adjusted, and the large black mass in front of her transformed into a boat. The silhouetted man who had called her “ma’am” turned into Thad Bailey, of all people, and Brandie…
Well, Brandie turned into an unconscious woman.
19
“This is it,” Judi Dench said, opening a window set halfway down the wall at the end of the corridor. “The easternmost point of Cromer Travelodge, which would put us only a few hundred feet from the cathedral, providing the poles haven’t switched while we’ve been in here.”
