by Chris Ward
For a second he couldn’t breathe, the Governor’s freezing hands holding him tight enough to close off his wind pipe, and then he was standing on his feet, pressed back against the door. The Governor let go of him, and Clayton stumbled, unaware his feet had been off the ground. He stared at the Governor’s chest, too terrified to look the man in the eyes.
‘Negotiations have opened with the European Confederation,’ the Governor said in that dark chocolate voice, like an old cassette tape playing on weak batteries. ‘We have filed a report concerning the Ambassador’s unfortunate death. We have made a case for certain trade routes to reopen, and in the meanwhile the provision of financial aid to allow us to reduce the poverty in London GUA. Negotiations are going well.’ He paused, his eyes falling to the ground. His mouth shifted as though he were chewing on something, and he frowned, thick white eyebrows descending like snow drifts on his eyes. ‘We created the mess, Mr. Clayton, and we have created the means by which to solve it. One man’s death for an entire city? The Ambassador died for a noble cause, Mr. Clayton. If we receive the financial aid we requested from the European Confederation, his death will not have been in vain. His death would have been one of valour, honour, resulting in the saving of hundreds of lives. Do you want your stupidity to jeopardize that?’
‘I’m sorry, sir –’
The Governor ignored him. ‘Neither do I. If it happens again, Mr. Clayton, I will not be so generous with you as I have been this time. Now, I know you came here to request my authorization for the Huntsmen to be released outside of London GUA in the continued search for these street kids you call the Tube Riders. And my answer is this, Mr. Clayton. You do what you have to do to safeguard the future of our nation. Those kids have knowledge that could bring our nation to its knees. And I will not jeopardize that. I understand the danger of the Huntsmen, but understand this: the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. Do what must be done, Mr. Clayton, to stop the Tube Riders.’
Clayton managed a weak nod. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, get out.’
Clayton didn’t wait to be asked twice, bowing and stealing a quick glance at the smashed lamp before pulling the door shut and hurrying down the corridor past the immobile guards and the dozens of upturned photograph portraits. He ignored the questions of the reception staff and headed straight for the elevator.
Downstairs in the lobby, a security guard announced that a car was waiting for him, but Clayton walked past him without acknowledgement. He headed through the reception area and down a small corridor at the back, into the men’s restrooms. Spotlessly clean and smelling of peaches, he walked to the end stall and went inside. He locked the door, dropped the seat and sat down.
For a long time he just sat there with his forehead pressed against the wall, eyes staring at nothing but his mind going over his confrontation with the Governor again and again. He couldn’t find the words, couldn’t make sense in his mind what had happened, couldn’t comprehend the scale of the danger he had faced. Guns, bombs, even the Huntsmen, they were man-made, they were comprehendible. But the Governor, the albino monster possessed something else.
A lot of rumours circulated in the cesspit illegal bars and gambling dens of London GUA. But, like the legend of the Tube Riders, most were simple speculation, something small built up over a lengthening string of drunken conversations into something grand.
The rumours about the Governor, however, that he had some kind of unexplainable strength, that he had abilities and powers that no other human had, were beginning to manifest themselves into Clayton’s mind as truth.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but there, in the darkness where he’d hidden so many times, all he could see was that menacing milk-white face and those glowing red eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Sleeping Place
It quickly became apparent to Marta that Bristol GUA shared many of the same anarchistic problems as London. As the Tube Riders wandered through the streets, directionless, numb from lack of rest and hurting from their wounds and the sudden loss of Jess and Simon, they found themselves in a similar world of decay as they’d taken for granted in London, only with lower buildings.
Long abandoned cars blocked many side streets. Groups of filthy tramps huddled in the open doorways, their eyes fixed on the Tube Riders as they passed, their faces stony, bitter. In the distance came the familiar wail of sirens, skidding car tires, screams, the sound of shattering glass.
They rested for a while in a small park at the back of a church a couple of miles from the train station. There they ate some of the food they’d brought with them, a few packets of cookies, some apples, half a loaf of bread. Only Paul had remembered to bring any drink, so Switch had gone off in search of some. Marta and Paul sat side by side with their backs against a low stone wall. Owen sat on Paul’s other side, his head on Paul’s shoulder, snoring quietly. Marta envied him, but despite feeling weary beyond words her eyes wouldn’t stay closed.
‘How long do you think it would take for a Huntsman to run to Bristol?’ Paul said, more voicing his fears than expecting any serious answer.
Marta forced a smile. ‘Surely even they have to rest sometime.’
‘Do you think they called them off when we got out of the city?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess we just have to wait and find out.’
He nodded. One arm slipped around the shoulders of his brother. Owen moaned and shifted slightly, but didn’t wake.
‘At least one of us can sleep,’ Marta said. ‘I hate to think what he’s dreaming about.’
‘The ocean, maybe. He’s always said he wants to see it. Or video games.’ He cocked his head. ‘I don’t think the Huntsmen scared him at all.’
Marta smiled. For a moment they were silent, listening to the quiet rustle of the trees in the park. Except for a tramp sleeping on a bench fifty feet away, the park was empty. The sun had risen up over a cluster of housing blocks to the east, its pale glow pressing through a thin veil of cloud. The air around them was cool, and the wind brushed against their arms with the chill touch of icy cobwebs.
Marta turned to Paul. ‘What do we do now?’ she said, frowning.
Paul tried to smile. ‘We wait for Switch. After that, I don’t know. He said he had an uncle in Bristol. Maybe we can find him.’
Marta grimaced. ‘In the unlikely event that Switch remembers where his uncle lives, and the man is even still alive, what do we do then? Sit and wait for the Huntsmen? And what about the others? What about Jess and Simon?’
Paul looked pained. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’
They had avoided talking about it much until now. Nothing needed to be said; they all knew how desperate the situation was. Simon was most likely dead, and Jess too, unless by some miracle she’d survived the jump in the dark. Even Marta wouldn’t have chanced it blind, and she’d jumped from moving trains hundreds of times.
For a moment she marveled at what it must feel like to love someone so much you would risk dying for them. She had no doubt that was what Jess had done; the jump had been near suicidal, and the girl’s devotion to Simon struck her as quite truly wonderful. There were days she’d lain awake at night, wishing someone would feel like that for her.
She’d had boyfriends, of course, some better than others. She found trust too difficult, and the last time she’d ever let herself feel love had been for a roguish guy called Jamie, whom she had known in her last year of school. They’d been a couple for a while, and she’d loved him far more than he deserved, for just a month after they had started going out he had gone out drunk and got himself shot by the police while trying to hold up a fuel station. She had mourned him for a while, but over time she’d come to see him for what he was; a bum, a freeloader, using her for a place to stay, borrowing her money, lying to her friends. Now, almost four years later, she felt nothing for him other than an odd, detached curiosity.
She sometimes wondered why she had never got together with Paul, or Simon befo
re he found Jess. Simon, while a little too androgynous for her liking, had a smile that would have melted hearts in a happier world, and even Paul was attractive in a dad-like, homey kind of way. Marta, with hair she rarely cut that was matted from lack of care rather than dreaded, and a body that was hard from tube riding, knew she was attractive in a goth-punk kind of way, because enough guys had told her. Yet the kinship she shared with Paul and Simon was more like family, and never had she felt any kind of stirrings of anything more.
Until yesterday, she had felt that Switch was different. He didn’t let anyone close to him and had issues with trust, she knew. Before the Tube Riders, everyone in his life had let him down, and while Marta felt he looked out for them, she often felt it was only temporary. If the Tube Riders fell apart, he would most likely move on.
But ever since he had assumed the role of her protector, she had seen him looking at her differently. As though, perhaps, the demons on their tail had scared his own inner demons away, and allowed him to move closer to her, maybe to the others too. Perhaps he had taken their union as Tube Riders for granted, and only now he had come close to losing it he was considering things in a new light.
Paul shifted beside her. ‘He’s back,’ he said, as the little man came running across.
Switch squatted down in front of them and handed out bottles of water. Paul nudged Owen awake, and his brother looked up, eyes red.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Went back to the station,’ Switch said. ‘People about but no sign of the DCA or the fucking Huntsmen either. If they can track as well as they claim, they should be here by now.’
‘Was that a good idea?’ Marta asked. ‘Going back there?’
‘Don’t worry. I was as quiet as a dead fucking mouse. Whatever, it looks like they’ve either lost us or got caught up with red tape back in London. Who knows, maybe they got sidetracked looking for Simon and his woman.’
‘Jess,’ Paul said.
‘Yeah, I know her name.’
‘She didn’t cause this.’
Switch looked away. ‘Fucking government caused this. Ain’t that who her old man works for?’
Paul glared at him. ‘Yeah, before he was slaughtered by the Huntsmen, along with her mother. Obviously not very selective are they?’
‘I guess not.’ Switch rolled his good eye. His bad eye made it halfway around, then gave up and just twitched. ‘Anyway, I think we have to assume the others are dead. If not, perhaps the – Jess might get away. Her scent won’t have been all over St. Cannerwells like ours was. In the meantime, I think we need to worry about ourselves first, and get to ground.’
‘Your uncle?’ Paul asked.
‘Give me time, we only just arrived. Not been here in a while, you know. A lot of shit’s been blown up since then, it looks a little different. If it wasn’t for certain familiar landmarks I’d be as lost as you are.’
Paul nodded. ‘I guess that first we need to worry about what we’re going to do with the information we have before it kills us.’
‘Simon had the memory card, in case you forgot. We have no proof of anything now,’ Marta said, struggling to keep the hollowness out of her voice. Until now she hadn’t really had a chance to think about it, but what she had promised her parents . . . it was over. They no longer had the memory card with the proof of what they’d seen on it. Now they were just a bunch of young people on the run, trying to stay as far ahead of the Huntsmen as possible.
‘We have what’s in our heads,’ Switch interrupted. ‘We have enough to start rumours, talk.’ He grinned. ‘Who knows, maybe they’ll even believe us.’
‘It’s something,’ Paul said. ‘Otherwise we just run until they catch us.’
‘You guys wanna stop talking and start moving?’ Owen said. ‘I’m getting cold.’
Switch grinned at him. ‘You got it right, kid. Let’s roll.’
Switch led them out of the park. There was still little traffic on the streets even as midday approached. Buses rumbled along among a handful of cars and motorbikes, some of their windows broken, swathes of dirt and dust along their sides. Glum people in factory uniforms stared out at nothing.
‘Wouldn’t wanna vacation here,’ Switch muttered as they ran. ‘Reckon I’d probably kill myself.’
They came out of a side street onto a wider street by a river, identified by a rusty sign as Temple Way. A bridge led over the muddy, lethargic water, and beyond it was another litter-strewn park. They could see the remains of park benches, a bandstand, even what looked like a small Ferris Wheel lying on its side. There were groups of people there too, sitting around under black or blue tarpaulin sheets, near fires that burned in old metal buckets and among piles of bricks. The faint echoes of laughter floated towards them from across the river.
They crossed the bridge and followed a sign that indicated the city centre, the road angling up from the river along a row of older buildings that wore the fading logos of old high street banks. There were no people here, and the road was empty of traffic.
‘Which way?’ Marta asked.
‘Trust me,’ Switch said. ‘I know a safe place.’
‘I’m hungry,’ Owen muttered, just as Paul said, ‘Look!’
Behind them, on the other side of the bridge, they saw a truck moving slowly along the road. Erected on its flat back was a huge television screen like the one they’d seen back in London. They could see the face of a man, hear snatches of what he said.
‘It’s the same broadcast as in London,’ Marta said. ‘About us. That crap about terrorists.’
‘I think we’d better get undercover quickly,’ Paul said.
‘Look at those people,’ Owen said, pointing.
In the park, people were stirring. A great cry went up as the truck moved slowly along the road outside. People stood up, shouting, waving sticks at the truck, throwing stones. A police officer standing guard lifted a speakerphone to his mouth and demanded calm, which only riled the people further.
The Tube Riders watched as first just one or two, then, spurring each other on, a crowd of people began to move through the park in the direction of the bridge. They carried sticks, rocks, metal poles, anything it seemed they could get their hands on.
‘They’re rioting,’ Marta said. ‘Those police are going to have a problem in a minute or two.’
They watched as the first police officer said something to the driver of the truck. The driver leaned out of his window, and over the distance between them they couldn’t make out his expression, but they saw the speed with which he ducked back inside, reaching for the gears.
Too late, another mob had taken a second bridge further down the park, and the truck was surrounded. The driver jumped out and together with the police officer turned and sprinted away down a side street.
‘What are they going to do?’ Paul asked.
The two mobs descended on the abandoned truck. Within moments several men had climbed up on to the back of the truck and had set upon the giant television screen with their weapons, smashing it up even as the Foreign Secretary, Douglas Lewitt, still read the governor’s statement in a voice that boomed out across the park. Someone else had climbed up into the cab and was trying to clear people away in order to reverse it back.
‘They’re gonna bomb it,’ Switch said, grinning. ‘They’re sick of the government’s constant crap.’
‘What do you mean?’ Owen asked.
‘Into the river,’ he replied. ‘Divebomb it.’
‘Wow!’ Owen’s eyes were wide and he had a big grin on his face as though he were watching an action movie. ‘That’ll show them!’
‘It’ll make this area into a hive of police once those guys return with back up,’ Paul said. ‘We’d better get moving.’
‘Just let me watch this!’ Owen said, resisting Paul’s tug on his arm. Marta had taken a couple of steps, but Switch also seemed intent on watching the television truck’s final demise.
A low stone wall marked the edge of the
river, but as one person moved the truck into reverse dozens of others kicked and struck the wall with their weapons. A couple of rocks came loose and fell in, then a couple more.
‘Clear!’ someone shouted, and the truck revved and jerked forward, slamming into the wall. A few more stones fell away, but the wall still held. The truck backed up again and the mob moved in to do some more damage. On the back of the truck, the television still played, but its screen was cracked and smashed up, and the sound had gone. Indistinct flickers of colour darted across the damaged surface like tropical fish in a pond during the rain.
‘Clear out!’ someone shouted again, and the truck revved. This time, the man inside pushed open the door before the truck started to move. As it rumbled towards what remained of the wall, he jumped out into the arms of several people waiting alongside.
The truck struck the wall with a loud metallic bang and jerked upwards. Then the wheels must have caught again because it suddenly moved up and out, hanging precariously over the river for a second, before plummeting into the water below.
The river wasn’t deep, and the truck struck the bottom with a huge crunch and then rolled over on to its back. Water rushed up to drown out the colours of the television and with it the last remaining fragments of the Foreign Secretary’s face.
A huge cheer went up from the mob at the same time as a wail of sirens began in the distance.
‘Run!’ someone shouted, and like a stampede of deer fleeing from a predator the mob split into two, both groups heading for the bridges leading over to the park. The few people who’d stayed behind by the tarpaulins gave a triumphant cheer. Marta looked around and saw the other three were also smiling.
‘Round one to the revolution,’ she said.
‘And on that note . . . don’t you think it’s time we made ourselves scarce?’ Paul said.
Switch grinned. ‘Follow me.’
