by Chris Ward
Marta gaped as the creature jerked the spear out of his body and flung it at her, just as Jin pulled her sideways through the door. The spear missed her by inches, hitting the wall behind where she had been standing and clanging to the ground.
Marta stared at the carnage outside. Reeder’s was only one of a number of bodies that lay scattered around the square. Small groups still fought, battling with sticks or bare hands. Then, the door slammed closed and a huge deadbolt was pulled across. Marta closed her eyes and collapsed back into Jin’s arms, tears of anger and frustration stinging her eyes.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Tunnel
As the convoy rolled past, heading upslope towards the top of the rise, moving slowly for fear of getting stuck in the soft ground or disturbing the Mistakes, Switch lifted his head. His neck ached from maintaining the position, keeping the guise up while Clayton, the Governor and Dreggo talked just a few feet away. It had been a risk to get so close, but he’d been right that the stench from the garbage would be too much even for the Huntsmen to differentiate him from it. He’d changed his clothes, of course, but had they come closer they would have recognised him, especially the twitch of his eye.
After separating from the others, he had hidden the jeep out of sight and then headed back to the gate to see what the Department of Civil Affairs would do when they reached the sabotaged checkpoint. As he’d suspected, they didn’t cut through the fence for fear of letting out the Mistakes, but rather headed north towards the next one. Once he realised their plans, he moved ahead of them quickly as the road took them away from the fence, their trucks slower over the old roads. At the next checkpoint he’d found a place to hide the jeep and been in position near the gate long before they arrived.
He rubbed his neck as he moved off towards where he had hidden the jeep in a stand of trees. He’d been able to shift position a little, but they’d still taken far longer than he’d thought necessary just to get the gate open and their trucks underway. He’d sensed that a changing of the guard was in order when Dreggo had disappeared with the Governor and come back wearing a DCA uniform. The man identified as Clayton had obviously suffered some sort of demotion. It was all conflict that might prove useful later though, as was the brief conversation he had been waiting so long to hear.
So, the Governor knew where they were going. That in itself erased all need for stealth because they were no longer being tracked, but that the Governor said the tunnel was sealed raised a bigger problem. Letting the Tube Riders run into a trap was the plan, let them head into the tunnel only to find it went nowhere except back, into the waiting teeth of the Huntsmen.
He frowned as he climbed up into the jeep and pulled off, heading due south-west, a map of Ishael’s on the seat beside him, Lizard Point highlighted in red. Out of the field he turned on to a small road that would take him around and ahead of the DCA, his jeep able to take routes their bigger trucks couldn’t. He pushed the jeep up through the gears, picking up speed, not caring as the small vehicle lurched and jumped through the potholes of the old road. He took a certain delight in driving, something he hadn’t done since he was about fifteen, in the days when there had been enough cars on the roads for it to be worth stealing them. It was no tube ride, but it was fun. Perhaps in another life he might have been a rally driver, he thought.
One of their radios had been lost during the fight in Exeter, and the rest of the Tube Riders had taken the other to stay in contact with William if necessary. The jeep was his only hope now, and he prayed it could handle one last journey. Getting to the tunnel and his friends before the DCA did was his only concern. He had to stop them going into that tunnel.
#
Dark was falling when he finally stopped the jeep at the top of a thin lane and climbed out. His body ached from the rough journey, and his stomach felt queasy. The knife wound in his side felt sticky beneath the bandages, as though the rocking and jerking of the jeep had broken open some of the stitches Reeder had done after Frank’s original ones had been broken. He hoped it would hold just a little longer.
Ahead of him he could hear the roar of the sea, the low growl of the waves as they battered the cliffs. The damp air was thick with the smell of salt, and Switch breathed it deeply, tasting it back in his throat. He’d never been remotely near the sea before, and he found the smells and the sounds intoxicating. Perhaps, he wondered, he’d also been a sailor in another previous life.
Up ahead of him was a clearing. A wide avenue had been cut through the trees, and what looked like a large warehouse stood at the end of a two hundred yard stretch of tarmac, in the lea of a steep hillside silhouetted against the evening sky, the cliffs and the English Channel somewhere beyond. Mickelson Packaged Goods read the faded sign above the warehouse. The stretch of tarmac, wide enough for four vehicles to run side by side, looked like the start of something never finished, the tarmac abruptly ending, reverting to the dirt track up which he had driven.
The warehouse, he was sure, disguised the entrance to the tunnel. Up the hill to the right another trail led away, and there, at the top of the cliff were a cluster of huge windmills, their blades black silhouettes against the night sky. Below them, where he had just been, was a large shed housing a collection of generators which still hummed with life.
The power was on.
Perhaps a mile back down the road, he’d come to another fence, another gate. The padlock had been thick with rust, suggesting either there was a second entrance somewhere, or the place was abandoned. He’d had to break it open, and he’d left the gates wide, figuring that to put back the broken padlock would be a ruse gaining him a few seconds at most. In the entranceway, he’d left the bodies of a couple of Mistakes he’d found and killed, to try to give the DCA the impression that the gates had been broken in a long time ago.
There was no sign of the Tube Riders. He had expected them to be here by now, and that they weren’t suggested they’d come upon further problems. He had faith in them to make it, but their chances of getting here before the Governor and the Huntsmen were slight now. He had a couple of hours on them at most.
He looked up at the warehouse façade, the wide road in front of it, his curiosity rising. The Governor claimed it was sealed, while Ishael thought it went right through to France. Who was right? If the Governor was right, he had to head the Tube Riders off before they got here. But if Ishael was right . . .
Curiosity got the better of him. He had to know for sure. He had to get inside, and find out for certain whether the tunnel was finished or not.
He approached the huge warehouse doors. They were maybe twenty feet high, tall enough to permit any kind of large cargo or military vehicle.
They were unlocked.
Switch slid them back on metal runners, the doors squealing as years of rust and dirt was scraped away. Sweat poured from his brow, and his throat was dry. He was hungry, thirsty and very, very tired, but he knew that whatever was going to happen was just hours away. First William and then the streets had raised him tough; he would last.
Inside, a cavernous darkness awaited him. He pulled a torch from his pocket and flashed it about. At least there were no Huntsmen or DCA agents that he could see. In fact, there didn’t appear to be anything except a thirty foot wide stretch of tarmac, flanked on either side by bare earth.
The whole warehouse looked rather temporary, erected just to cover over something not yet finished but which was best kept secret. He shone his torch to either side, and located a set of switches. Flicking them brought high strip lights reluctantly into life, and the warehouse revealed itself.
At the back a rock wall faced him, broken only by a huge tunnel entrance at the end of the tarmac. Perhaps a hundred feet high, it angled gently down into darkness. The tunnel looked finished, the roof rounded and polished smooth. Dim emergency lights reminded him of St. Cannerwells, and he could only reflect on how long ago those days seemed now.
Near the entrance was a single floored brick building. Inside
, Switch found a dusty computer console and a bank of switches. He flicked a couple to see what would happen. One brought a gust of damp, musty air flowing out of the tunnel, and he knew he’d started up some sort of fan system. He flicked a few more. One, terrifyingly, caused scratchy piano music to boom out. He switched it off quickly, and tried another. This time he got lucky, and a flood of light burst out of the tunnel as huge overhead strip lights came on.
Switch went outside and looked down the slope of the tunnel. Clearly, this was just an entrance ramp, for perhaps a hundred yards further on the tunnel opened out.
He jogged down the slope to take a look. The tarmac stopped at the bottom of the ramp, yielding to bare hewn rock. Lights and fans hummed overhead but the floor of the tunnel wasn’t quite finished, wooden boards and occasional piles of rock debris showing how work had abruptly ceased. To the right of the ramp were a series of huge storage garages built back into the rock, and Switch wondered what was inside. Cutting or clearing vehicles he imagined.
To the left though, was as impressive a sight as he’d ever seen. The entrance was nothing compared to this monster, the tunnel at least two hundred feet wide, and angling downwards below the ocean floor, stretching away as far as he could see. He expected it began to rise at some point, up towards the French side. He couldn’t see any sign of an end from here, but they had guessed it could be fifty miles long or more. Slight curves or angles would easily take it out of view.
So, it existed, he’d established that. Now he just needed to know how far it went. Who was right, the Governor or Ishael? Did it stop halfway across the Channel, or did it go all the way over to France?
He hurried back to the Jeep.
Chapter Fifty-Six
Trap
Darkness had completely fallen by the time the Governor’s car led the way up the dirt track to the old tunnel entrance. Dreggo confirmed one of the Tube Riders had been inside, but his scent trail was freshest leading back away down the track, the way they had come. Earlier they had caught the rest of the Tube Riders’ scents heading into the small village, and Clayton had wanted to follow them and flush them out, but the Governor had decided it would be far more rational to lie in wait for them near the tunnel entrance. If they survived the Mistakes they would come eventually, he reasoned, and if the Tube Riders didn’t survive, well, their job would be done for them.
‘We set up camp back in the trees,’ the Governor told Clayton by radio. ‘Dreggo will have the Huntsmen patrol the area and await the Tube Riders’ approach. My guess is they will come early in the morning, at first light. There is a good chance they will be on foot, so have your men set up sniper positions from the hill above the entrance and in the trees. Remember, no one is to shoot unless on my command. I want them inside the tunnel, where they can’t get out. Get the doors open and see if the lights still work.’
He clicked the radio off and turned to Dreggo. ‘Soon, very soon, things will be back on track and we can get back to running this country.’
Dreggo nodded. Part of her was sick of the countryside and wanted to return to London, while another part was aching to spill the blood of the Tube Riders. The feeling of her fingers breaking open Karmski’s neck returned, and the deliciously euphoric sensation she remembered made her shudder. It would happen again with the Tube Riders, especially the bitch and the little fuck with the bad eye, and then they could go home.
‘Give your commands to the Huntsmen, Dreggo,’ the Governor said. ‘I want the Tube Riders inside the tunnel. The Huntsmen are only to kill them if they come out. Anyone else, though, should be killed immediately. We don’t want anyone getting in our way this time.’
‘Yes sir. Consider it done.’ She quickly established a mind link with the Huntsmen. She could feel their frustration at the long, bumpy journey, and their desire to kill and feast. Now was a time to be wary of them, she knew, because they were liable to disobey her commands if they didn’t do either soon. She warned them, told them to keep themselves alert. One, though, was missing.
– Lyen? – she sent the link personally to his neuro-frequency. – where are you? –
– yes . . . –
– Are you all right? --
– yes . . . –
She felt the Huntsmen being released from the truck under the supervision of their handlers. – Don’t stray far – she told him.
– no . . . stay close –
– you are worried? –
– no . . . –
– you will see the girl soon enough –
– girl . . . –
– be patient –
– patient . . . –
She closed the link. He was all right. Showing him the photograph of his sister had been risky, but there was still a chance the knowledge could be useful. If the Tube Riders tried to escape, they might be able to force the girl to give up the memory card in return for her brother’s life. With the Governor in charge, though, there were not likely to be more chances to escape. The net was closing, this time for good.
#
Lyen looked around as the other Huntsmen were released from their bonds. One or two snapped at the handlers, but most were calm, aware of their orders and ready. Most of the less predictable Huntsmen were now dead, their inability to follow orders proving their downfall.
He slipped into the trees, planning to do a circuit of the clearing and then patrol the area up on the hill. The remaining human part of his mind really wanted to see the ocean. His eyes were good in the dark, and the moon was out, which would help. But, orders were orders.
Or were they? The image of his sister flashed in his mind, and he remembered the moment they had crossed her scent trail and then left it behind. He could go to her now, could see her again, couldn’t he? After all, they were searching for her, because she had done something wrong.
She had to be killed.
Didn’t she?
Lyen cocked his head. Lyen, Dreggo had called him just now. But his name was Leo. Leo Banks.
Lyen was a Huntsman, ordered to ensure the deaths of the Tube Riders. But he was also Leo Banks, brother of Marta, the Tube Rider. Leo Banks had been a Tube Rider too, he remembered now. He had been a Tube Rider and a brother. He was no longer a Tube Rider, but he was still a brother.
Were brothers supposed to kill their sisters?
Lyen was a Huntsman.
Leo Banks was Marta Banks’s brother.
Which one was he? Which one was he supposed to be?
He realised he had walked further into the woods than he had planned to. The fence was nearby; he could smell the metal on the wind. And beyond the fence, the dirt road which they had come up.
That road led back to Marta’s scent. Marta, the Tube Rider and his sister. His target, and his kin. If he followed that road he could find her.
Lyen could kill her.
Leo could love her.
Who was he?
The fence was behind him now. The dirt trail was dark and silent, the night not even broken by the screams of the Mistakes they had been hearing for the last few hours. None of them came here, but there would be Mistakes where Marta was now. Mistakes would try to kill her.
Marta, his sister.
Lyen could kill Mistakes, he could protect her.
Leo could kill Mistakes, he could protect her.
Lyen.
Leo.
Which was he?
Was there any difference, really?
Lyen was a Huntsman. Leo was Marta’s brother.
Lyen was Leo.
Leo was Lyen.
They were one and the same.
Marta was in danger.
Leo moved into a slow jog as he headed down the dirt track. Within a few hundred yards, he had broken into a full run.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Goodbyes
John Reeder’s death hung heavily on all of them as they had sat together in a basement room of the old police station, now converted into a safe house of sorts. The last sounds of the
battle above had died down some time ago, as the villagers found cover and the Mistakes lost interest and headed back into the forest. Owen and Carl had fallen into an uneasy sleep, the toil harder on the younger ones than the others, and Ishael knew Carl blamed himself for firing the gun. Ishael blamed himself for giving the order, but as Jin had told them, when the Mistakes came, they came, it was only ever a question of how many.
Jess, unwilling to speak to anyone, had gone off with Paul to help care for the wounded on an upper floor, leaving Marta and Ishael alone. After a while, Marta had fallen asleep, and Ishael had gone off to speak to Jin.
The man’s face was blood-stained from the fight. Sitting on a metal chair, he was wiping himself down with a towel when Ishael approached.
‘I’m sorry,’ Ishael said, taking a seat beside him. ‘I’m sorry we brought them down on your town.’
Jin shook his head. ‘It takes little to set the Wildmen off,’ he said. ‘It happens often. Each time we lose a few more. It’s the children we try to keep safe.’
Ishael looked at the man’s arms, at the metal implants that bulged under the skin.
‘Is Lucy all right?’
Jin smiled. ‘I got word that she made it to another safe house. She can take care of herself better than I can.’
Ishael could resist no longer. ‘Why do you fight each other? After all, you’re all . . .’
‘Mistakes?’
‘Uh, yeah.’
‘Why do white humans fight black humans?’ Jin said. ‘Or humans of one nation fight another? They’re a lot more similar than we are to some of them out there.’
Ishael understood. ‘It’s how the world is I guess.’
Jin nodded. ‘We’re all government rejects,’ he said. ‘But all of us are different. Back when that fence first went up and the first dumps were made, those of us that maintained a level of rationality banded together. We called ourselves the Free Folk. We made camps, joined with other groups, and eventually made settlements. We repaired houses, planted our own crops, even managed to find a few stray cows which we bred into small herds. We built generators, got the power back on. Together we rediscovered our humanity, but we can never forget what happened to each of us. We are reminded of that every day, when the Mistakes who are too far gone, those we call the Wildmen, wander into the village, or attack us like they did tonight. But we are free now, and we are the lucky ones, the ones able to rebuild. Not all of the people taken by the government were as lucky as us. Many of them are mindless and destructive, more animal than man. They attack us at random. Anything can set them off, a shout, a cry, a closing door.’
