by Chris Ward
Jess moved away from her, wandered a few feet down the slope and sat down on a rock, her eyes drifting across the valley below. Marta knew there was little that could be said to her, so she turned and headed back towards the group.
Reeder had begun to dish out the food and most of them were eating. Paul sat together with Switch on a flat rock, while Owen and Carl were sitting on a tarpaulin spread out by the side of the Land Rover. Reeder smiled and handed her a plastic dish, then set about preparing his own. She looked around and saw Ishael standing alone, looking out towards the west. As she went over to join him, she realised how happy seeing him again had made her, even though at first she had barely recognised him behind the ruins of his face. Whatever horrors she’d seen, the thought of the DCA agents going to work on him like thugs made her sick inside. There was a case to excuse even the human-made Huntsmen, she reasoned, but any man who could commit such atrocities towards another with willingness and zeal was inhuman.
After they had stopped, Reeder, his field skills seemingly without end, had produced an old first aid kit, the plastic wrapping on the band-aids and bandages hardened and cracked with age. Using tweezers boiled sterile, he had reopened the half-scabbed gash on Ishael’s cheek, cleaned it with antiseptic, and stitched it up. Then he had fixed up a gash in Ishael’s scalp where his hair had literally been torn out, dressed his fingers where the fingernails had been torn away and applied an antiseptic lotion to terrible welts on the soles of Ishael’s feet and to teeth marks on the back of one calf muscle. Ishael was at least recognizable now, and with the exception of the deep wound on his cheek, Reeder claimed he would eventually look ‘better than new.’
Switch had been next, his knife wound re-stitched and dressed. Jess, Carl and Paul had been treated for minor cuts and scrapes. Only Owen and Marta had so far escaped unharmed, something that she at least felt an uneasy sense of guilt over.
When Marta had questioned Reeder on his medical knowledge, he had said, ‘There’s a lot of time to think out in the GFAs. Plenty of time to learn anything you can swap for food or shelter. All you need is an old book or two and the occasional test subject.’ Again she was thankful they had stumbled across him.
‘Hey,’ Ishael said, as she came up beside him. He looked down at her food. ‘Eat it while it’s hot.’
‘I intend to.’ She prodded a potato with a plastic fork. ‘I’m, um, glad you made it. We didn’t know what happened back at the station. I thought maybe you . . .’
‘Nearly.’ He shrugged. ‘It depends how lucky you call this,’ he said, meaning his injuries. ‘Whatever, I owe Jess and Carl my life.’
Marta nodded. She had heard a version of events from both Ishael and Carl, who had told what he knew of their flight and Simon’s death to Marta and Paul because Jess wasn’t talking to anyone much. ‘It’s lucky they found you.’
‘It’s kind of hard to say, but if Simon were alive now, I’d probably be dead. I’m not sure how to describe how that makes me feel. On the one hand I feel happy, but on the other, so desperately sad. It’s like I have a pit in my stomach.’
Marta glanced at him. His bruises made it difficult to read his expression, but she could guess at the turmoil there.
‘Do you think Jess resents me because of that?’
Marta shrugged. ‘Jess is hurting. We’ve all lost friends and family over the years, but most of us have had time to grieve, to come to terms with it. Jess has lost everyone close to her in such a short time. We’re all she has left, and she probably resents us all for it.’
Ishael nodded. ‘For years, all I wanted was for the UMF to come out from the underground, blow this whole thing wide open. You know, just get on with it. I never realised how much it would hurt to see so many people in pain. The dead, at least they have closure. It’s the living that are suffering most. Look at Jess. Carl too. The Huntsmen killed his father, maybe his mother too.’
Marta nodded. She hadn’t had much chance to speak to Carl herself, but Paul had taken him on as a second younger brother. Paul had told her about the attack on Carl’s house. To Marta, not knowing was perhaps even worse. She felt terrible that Carl, like Ishael, had been dragged into this mess, and she knew how he felt; she had suffered with Leo’s disappearance for years. Time could dull the pain, but it could never fully erase it.
Marta reached across and felt for Ishael’s hand. He let her take it, and then squeezed hers in his. Am I safe? she wondered. Can this battered man protect me? Can I protect him?
She thought of Jess, of Simon’s death, and of the pain Jess must be suffering. A sudden pang of guilt struck her, and she must have tensed, because Ishael let go of her hand and turned towards her.
‘What’s wrong? I’m . . . sorry. I shouldn’t have –’
‘It’s okay. It’s just . . .’ she couldn’t finish, but his small nod told her he understood. He squeezed her hand again, and she let her body relax.
‘I hope that some good comes of all this,’ he said.
‘Me too.’
They sat on the ground for a while. Marta finished her breakfast. It was good, even though she had let it get cold after all. A few potatoes, a thin slice of fish and a stew sauce filled her more than she’d expected.
As she wiped her mouth, she glanced back at the others. Carl and Owen were talking quietly. Paul was eating. She caught Switch’s gaze for a moment before he quickly looked away, not for the first time since they’d rescued Ishael and the others last night.
Surely not . . . but she wondered. He had saved her life more than once over the last couple of days. In between she’d felt him edge closer to her, as though he had appointed himself her personal protector. He’d spoken to her in a kinder, less abrasive way than he spoke to the others.
It made sense. They had always been like siblings, but difficult circumstances had a way of pushing people closer. She had no feelings for him other than the same brotherly love she’d felt before, and now as she watched the back of his head as he dipped to eat, she felt nothing new. They were close, but there was nothing deeper there.
With Ishael though, just his presence made her feel good. She found him attractive, too, beneath his bruises. If anything, what he had suffered made her feelings stronger; that she’d come close to losing him before anything had ever happened. Could something happen between them?
Marta stifled a sigh. Maybe, if circumstances were different. On the run from the Huntsmen, homeless, maybe lost, was hardly the time to start building a relationship. In another time, another place, maybe. She swallowed down a lump in her throat.
‘Come on,’ Ishael said at last. ‘We have to get moving soon.’
Just down the hillside from the camp, Paul, Carl and Owen were washing up the breakfast dishes. Switch had climbed to the top of the rise and was sharpening a knife in the shadow of a crooked tree. Jess stood nearby, gazing out at the view.
Reeder was tinkering under the hood of the Land Rover. He looked up as they approached.
‘Any trouble?’ Ishael asked. ‘Maybe I can help. I know a little about engines.’
‘No, she’s fine. I’m just worried, as always. It’s almost impossible to replace parts these days. I’ve not changed the oil in nearly a year, so the engine isn’t working too great, but our biggest problem is fuel.’
‘You don’t have enough?’
‘I think we can make it to Falmouth.’
Ishael forced a smile. Instead of heading south, Reeder had purposely taken them far further north-west than necessary in order to gain some time on the government men. The DCA’s vehicles couldn’t cover the ground so fast, and if they were using the Huntsmen to track them on foot, every mile opened up the gap further. Of course, they knew the DCA had intercepted their radio broadcasts, so there was a good chance the government would head straight for Falmouth to cut them off. However –
‘We need to change course,’ Ishael said. ‘We’re not going to Falmouth.’
Reeder raised an eyebrow. ‘Are we not?’
‘Where?’
‘Lizard Point. It’s a rocky outcrop into the English Channel. You know it?’
Reeder looked grim. ‘Yes, I know where you mean.’
‘Do we have enough fuel to make it?’
‘What do you need there?’
Ishael took a deep breath. ‘There’s a tunnel there.’
‘A tunnel?’
Ishael nodded. ‘It was built back in the days before Mega Britain. It was originally planned as a second public tunnel to France, but the government changed its plans and downgraded it to trade and military uses only. Then, during the coup that birthed Mega Britain, the remnants of the old military sealed over the entrance. A few years ago, we broke into an old government bunker in Bristol. We stole some plans, hoping to find out more about the perimeter walls. Among them, we found details of the tunnel.’
Marta stared open-mouthed. ‘You mean –’
Ishael nodded. ‘That’s how we’re getting you to France.’ He smiled. ‘We’re going underground.’
Marta started to speak, but John Reeder lifted a hand. ‘Wait, don’t get carried away, young revolutionary. I have a few more years on you, my friend. I remember hearing of that tunnel. The government never finished it. Got about halfway in, and then the coup came.’
Ishael shook his head. ‘That’s what everyone thought. The old government didn’t finish it. The French did.’
‘Now, how on earth did you figure that out? Where’s your proof?’
‘It was in the contract drawn up between the two countries. The British and the French were both to drill to the midpoint. The British finished their section before the coup, but sealed up the entrance to hide the tunnel’s existence.’
‘Are you sure they didn’t destroy it entirely?’
‘No. The plans we stole weren’t the originals, they were plans updated by Mega Britain Officials. In a footnote it was stated that the tunnel had potential as a future invasion route to Europe, should the need arise.’
‘They were going to finish it off and send an invasion force over to France?’ Reeder scoffed. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
Ishael nodded. ‘I don’t think they ever planned to do it. They were just acknowledging the tunnel’s potential.’
Marta touched his arm. ‘How do you know the French finished it?’
Ishael looked at her, and then back at Reeder. Behind the bruises his eyes looked a little uncertain. ‘We have strong reason to believe that the French would have kept their part of the bargain for the same reason.’
Reeder slapped a hand against his forehead with a resounding snap. He rolled his eyes. ‘“Strong reason to believe”? So, you don’t know.’
Ishael cocked his head. ‘We’re about eighty percent sure.’
‘That’s just a number, my friend. Ninety-nine percent won’t be enough if that tunnel proves to be a dead end. In the event we make it that far, it sounds like a coffin to me.’
‘The ports are all sealed or closed. There’s not an inch of water within three miles of the coast that’s not covered by machine guns. It’s our only chance.’
‘But it’s not much of one! You’d be better off setting up a couple of gun outposts and trying to pick them off as they surround us. It’s crazy.’
‘I think it’s worth a try. If we get there with enough of a head start, we’ll have time to turn around and get away if it doesn’t work out.’
Reeder didn’t look amused. ‘Let’s assume this tunnel is complete. That’s the least of your problems. You do know it’s behind The Fence, don’t you?’
Ishael nodded. ‘The sealed section of Cornwall. The area reserved for government officials to take a little holiday.’
Reeder laughed. ‘Is that what you think? Is that really what you think?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I take it you’ve never been as far as The Fence?’
Marta said, ‘What’s behind it?’
Reeder nodded towards the Land Rover. ‘Get everyone on board. It’s time to leave. As for that accursed fence, my friend, in a couple of hours you’ll know exactly what’s behind it, and I’m afraid you’re not going to like it one bit.’
Chapter Forty-Nine
Menace
Clayton scowled through the broken windscreen as the sun began to rise behind them, bathing the dirt track they were traveling along in pale sunlight. After more than three hours of painstaking progress along the thin, overgrown lanes, the land cruiser’s battered suspension and the cold early morning air were starting to get to him. Dreggo’s Huntsmen were still tracking the Tube Riders’ scent, while Clayton’s men had been searching maps to try to find short cuts to haul back their quarry’s time advantage. The Tube Riders’ single vehicle could move much faster over the terrain, so only by second guessing them would Clayton’s men haul them in. The problem was that half of the roads on the map were overgrown or otherwise impassable. They had been forced to backtrack several times, and all the while the Tube Riders got further and further ahead.
A small force had been dispatched to Falmouth to cut the Tube Riders off, but as Clayton had suspected, the scent trail was leading away from there, angling much further north. Falmouth was most likely a decoy, a town spat out at random in an attempt to buy them some time. Fortunately for Clayton’s men, though, the Tube Riders were running out of places to go. Deep into Cornwall now, Clayton had ordered fresh reinforcements from London to move in and cut off the major routes out of the area, should the Tube Riders and their little band try to double back. They were heading for the sea. There were no active ports in Cornwall, neither were there any air strips. It occurred to Clayton that the resistance force they had battled in Bristol might have an ocean-equipped vessel hidden away somewhere in an abandoned fishing port, but it was unlikely. Even if they could get out to sea, the government’s coastal defenses would easily pick them off.
Beside him, Dreggo twisted. He had brought her up to his vehicle in order to more quickly relay his instructions to the Huntsmen, but it made him nervous to have her so close. It was difficult to concentrate with one hand pressed into his pocket, fingering the little remote that would screw up her nervous system.
She looked at him and pouted. ‘Are we there yet?’
‘Shut up.’
Dreggo grinned and glanced out of the passenger window at an overgrown field they were passing. ‘Where are all the people?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m sure you do but you can’t be bothered to tell me.’
‘That’s right.’
Dreggo leaned her head against his shoulder, close enough that he could smell the distinctly metallic odor of the inserts in her face and head. He tensed, and saw her smile as a result. ‘You know, Mr. Clayton,’ she began in a childish, saccharine-soaked voice, ‘If I didn’t hate you with every inch of my body, and desire your death with every part of my will, I would probably find you attractive. In a grandfatherly kind of way.’
‘I appreciate the compliment.’
‘I would probably sleep with you, if I thought I could bring myself to touch you without wanting to tear you apart.’
‘Give it a rest, would you?’ Clayton tried to shift away, but the gearbox and the driver’s seat blocked his escape.
‘I haven’t been with a man – willingly – in a long time, Mr. Clayton. Even though the pond scum you work with filled me up with bits of metal, underneath it all I’m still a woman. I’m a woman with needs.’
Clayton scowled at her. ‘Just shut up, will you?’
Dreggo looked about to reply when a crackle of static burst from the car’s internal radio.
Clayton leaned forward. ‘What is it?’ he barked.
‘Mr. Clayton . . .’
Even Dreggo shivered at the sound of the Governor’s voice. Clayton glanced at her before he answered. ‘Sir? Yes, sir?�
�
‘I trust you cannot yet confirm the capture of the Tube Riders?’
‘Sir, I –’
‘I thought not. Clayton, your incompetence is beginning to annoy me.’ Beside him, Dreggo smiled.
‘Sir –’
‘It appears you have developed a stutter. I suggest you put your breath to better use by more accurately briefing your men. In the meanwhile, we will rendezvous at Fence Checkpoint Three in approximately two hours. I assume you have surmised that the Tube Riders plan to go inside?’
‘They won’t get far, sir.’
‘You told me that back in London, and you told me that from Bristol, yet here we are taking a vacation in Cornwall with an unnecessary trail of bodies behind us.’
The radio clicked off. Clayton glared at it.
‘Sounds like you’re in trouble,’ Dreggo said.
‘Shut up.’
‘You know,’ she said, voice suddenly turning serious. ‘We could start a revolution of our own.’
‘What?’
‘The Governor is coming to Cornwall. He’ll be unguarded. We have your men, and the Huntsmen –’
Clayton lifted a hand. ‘You talk of treason. I should kill you for those words.’
‘Do it, I dare you. But with my last command to the Huntsmen I will order your death.’
Clayton’s eyes narrowed. ‘There’s not time.’
With a slow smile Dreggo lifted a hand and touched her forehead. ‘It’s already done.’
‘You bitch.’
‘Your men might cut them down, but yet another failure to maintain control will count against you. Your days are numbered.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
Dreggo reached out and touched his knee. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I control the Huntsmen, Clayton. Through a little kinship and a lot of cruelty on behalf of your men, they trust me. We have enough to practically sack London. We can fight him.’
Clayton shook his head with resignation. ‘You have no idea what the Governor can do.’
Dreggo fingered a piece of metal that protruded from her upper arm and bent over her shoulder as a kind of armour. Where it passed through the skin was a stretchy plastic membrane that had been fused with her skin tissue and melded to the metal. She reached out and put her fingers on the truck’s dashboard, pressing against the plastic. For a moment she appeared to strain and nothing happened. Then Clayton heard a creak and a fracture opened up in the plastic. His eyes widened. It would have taken a hammer to do the same amount of damage.
