by Tim Heath
“Look, I think we'd better head back in, but I've enjoyed this. Please know that you can talk to me about anything.”
“Thanks. I've needed this, too. I'll certainly take you up on that offer. Tell me though, how has it come to this?” She was pointing to the horizon that once boasted a superb view over London.
“I don't know, Lorna. I just don't know.” They started walking back towards the hospital, slowly but steadily, before Alison finished:
“But whatever caused this, it doesn't have to be what defines how it all finishes. We've survived, and we'll go on fighting. It's all we can do. It's all we can ask our patients to do. And if your patient can do what we hope he can, then one day, that view, that city we once looked out over, could be rebuilt. And out there somewhere, ahead of us in some unknown future, are also the building blocks for our own lives to be restored, one block at a time. You'll see.”
Lorna pondered the words for a moment and held onto them, but there seemed no obvious reply, so she didn't offer one. They went their separate ways and returned to the roles in which they were most needed: Alison to the busy and hectic wards, Lorna to her patient John, on whom now rested so much. The hopes of the nation––yet so little did he know.
13
Twenty Two Days Ago
It was two days before the first launch and day eight of John's team project when news first reached them about the shooting of Bradley outside a London restaurant. They were all genuinely shocked and surprised; there was no apparent motive. It wasn't too long before they all started to see the possible connection, each in his own way, but nobody said anything out loud. They had no idea as to why he had been killed or what he'd been doing in London that day. It was his day off, so perfectly understandable that he might have gone somewhere to eat. The team had not picked up any hints that Bradley was involved in anything unsavoury, though no one knew him that well. He was the outsider in the group and had grown increasingly more so over the previous few days. In some ways, him being off the last day had been more relaxed on them all.
Now, of course, came the guilt and remorse and they'd taken time away from all the monitoring to talk through and process what had taken place, to mark the passing of a colleague and accomplished journalist, even if not the loss of a friend.
After the thirty minute pause, there was a distinctly more sombre mood, a more profound recognition that they were now a man down. Had what they were doing got him killed? That was the thought on John's mind as he cautiously started working through things again, looking at his notes, reading through the documents, piecing together the story.
Across the city, at the rival newspaper Bradley had approached the day before, there was also a tellingly downbeat mood in the office of the editor. He'd been told the news by his boss, while he was working on a draft of the story based on what Bradley had already given them. They were now somewhat cautious about proceeding, aware that what he'd told them had almost certainly caused his death. They'd been at the scene within minutes of the shooting, as the office was close by and it was central London after all––a shooting was a big event. It was clear it had been a professional hit: two shots fired from some distance, from an as yet unknown marksman's gun, hitting the same spot on the victim's forehead. An assassination. It added to the story but also brought a sharp reality to it all. They were being pulled into something far more significant than usual, and it had got their source killed. Was it the British cleaning up, or Bradley's source killing him for leaking their information? There were too many questions, and it was too hot to touch. Crucially, they were ordered to shelve the scoop until further notice. The paper didn't want the fight coming to them if they published what they had. They recognised when to back away silently, and this was undoubtedly that moment. Security was stepped up around the building, as well, just as a precaution. If the killing had been a warning, for them it had worked. They had the outlines of a great story anyway, ready to be used when the time was right. It would undoubtedly hurt someone, but continuing to publish it at the moment, could end up hurting them the most. That wasn't something they were willing to do.
As lunchtime approached in the café where John's team had primarily based themselves for the previous week, the typical trade was starting to come through. Passing customers were apparently aware of news reports about the journalist as his picture had been splashed across many front pages, and most locals had recognised him as a regular visitor to their local café. And with the team's number naturally reduced that day in the café, the gossip was beginning to spread fast. Rather than stay away, people were going out of their way to drop in on the tired looking café. It had never made such a good trade as it had in the previous eight days.
John rounded up his A-team and decided they'd move out for the afternoon. They could all now fit comfortably in the van, and maybe it would be quieter for them. He was aware of the increased traffic through the café and didn't want to attract any more unwanted attention. It was also getting nearer to the launch of the first probe, and they wanted to be as near to the site as possible.
They were starting to pick up a lot more relevant information from the base. Internal memos between various departments, weather readouts, guidelines, as well as all the inconsequential chat about weekend activities and such. They had already figured out which people to focus on as they had previously worked out a system and understood the apparent hierarchy working within the base. They would prioritise the information coming from some sections of the office or specific people over that of other, less senior, people. That way they were able to keep up with the information, even though they were now a man down.
Later that evening, as their van pulled back into the car park at the café, they got out and returned to their own cars. Alan took the van home himself as they'd agreed to meet early the following morning. John saw the owner of the café doing the final clean up as the café was closing. There was no one left in the place after what had been a hectic day for him. John walked in, the door making a ring, and the owner peered through from the back, thinking he'd have to tell someone it was closed, only to see John. He smiled.
“Quite a day!” he said, coming out with a cloth in his hands.
“I'd say we've been good for business. Maybe we should work on commission,” John said with a smile.
“The gossip has been flying around here, I can say. Lots of folks have made the connection. I'm sorry for your loss.”
“Look, don't feel sorry. In truth, we have no idea what happened. Maybe just some random act of terror? Maybe someone paying some revenge for something from before?” John didn't know what more to say.
“The folks in here today have been genuinely sorry with what happened. Most had made the connection, for the rest they soon heard the rumours when they arrived here.”
“You've got your own little thriving gossip mill all of a sudden,” John said.
“I know. Who would have thought it!” the owner said, a smile crossing his face. “One more thing. A couple of strangers came asking around as well, just moving through the crowd. Both were white guys with an accent. Australian or South African, I can't always tell. They weren't American, anyway, that's for sure. They mean anything to you?”
“No,” John said, a little concerned. “What do you mean they were asking around?”
“Just that. Turned up around three o'clock. Ordered a coffee each, and sat there watching the door. I was in and out of the kitchen, but it seemed they got into some of the conversations going on around them. They were asking about the dead guy, asking what they all thought and had they seen him here. Most folks played it dumb, but I don't think they bought it. They left suddenly, and a few of the people talked with me after. They wanted to know who he'd been working with. They wanted to know about you and your team.”
John looked even more concerned now. So the owner added:
“I didn't say anything. I don't think anyone did. But I thought I'd mention it to you in case.”
In c
ase what? John wanted to ask, but let that thought go.
“Thanks,” he added and turned to leave. “Look, you've been great with letting us use your café, and I'm glad it has been good for business. But I think we're done now with this phase of things, and so we won't be back tomorrow. All the best. And I hope to see you again at some point.” John turned and left, not knowing if he would try and come back to the café. It had made a convenient base for the week, but the food wasn't much to write home about. And now someone had come snooping. That made him a little cautious. Fear soon rose in his stomach like bile. He looked around the empty car park but was alone. Pulling away, he kept checking his mirrors, watching for any tail, but the roads were quiet, and as far as he could tell, no one was watching him.
Back at the cottage, he once again checked around, remaining seated in his car for five minutes just observing the road behind him as well as for any movements coming from inside his home. There were neither, so he slowly got out, locked the car and walked over to the front door. He was like a man with a death sentence hanging over him. That was indeed how he was beginning to feel.
“What have I got into?” he said aloud once inside, having checked every room twice just to be sure. Taking a bottle of whisky from the cupboard under the stairs, he pulled out a glass and sat down, turning on the TV. There was an old British comedy just starting. The perfect end to a troublesome day. Sixty minutes later, the bottle half finished and the comedy programme only just ended, he was already asleep.
Three Weeks Ago
Felix managed just over three hours' sleep, and he woke with a start just after ten on that bright, fresh Tuesday morning. The program was complete, some further testing needed, but he would get that done straightaway and aimed to make it available to others before the day was out.
The significant challenge would be to get it to the right kind of people and, more importantly than that, to find someone who could be the person to make the journey back. There was no way of knowing how possible it would all be. Unknown to Felix at the time, two attempts had been made to go in and close down the system. The first guy, in full chemical suit, had been so disabled by the weight of the suit that he'd become unsteady working his way through the debris, the same rocks and bricks and metal that made a robotic operation impossible. He'd caused a long tear to the suit that had caused severe radiation burns which killed him. He was still over three hundred metres from the site when he fell down dead. At the next attempt they got within one hundred and fifty metres, but even without a tear in the suit this time, the level of output from the leaking nuclear reactors, as well as the general heat and difficulty of the situation, had stopped that attempt. There were no further volunteers to try again nor was there an obvious solution to protect them from the lethal levels of radiation anyway.
In the early evening of that Tuesday, a day that had been like all the others since the incident with many deaths reported, fear growing––worldwide support offered but from arm's length, of course––Felix deemed his part in the program to be concluded. It was time to bring in others, fresh people who could take things on from him. He would have liked to have been involved further, but he knew his time and energy were now running out. Far from resting and maybe having a few more days or weeks to live, he'd burned himself out by working non-stop, sleeping very little, in the vain hope that he'd be able to see the issue resolved. To die trying was better than to die having done nothing at all. That was his state of mind. There was no escape for him, so why not work hard and hasten the inevitable rather than stop and feel sorry for himself, and have it all happen to him anyway.
At six that evening, as he finished a telephone call with the army, the officer stated that they were very keen to speak further with him and someone was already on his way. The military realised they were fighting a losing battle. The cleanup problems were getting worse by the day, the death toll was rising inexorably, with no hope of the containment or isolation that was desperately needed. So when Felix had rung them, talking about this mind control program that he'd been perfecting, it gave them ideas and a hope where, up to that point, there had been nothing to go on. So someone came round to discuss his thoughts.
By nine that evening Felix was exhausted, more than he had ever felt before. After a lengthy discussion, the man from the base had gone and so had his pride and joy. Felix had been cut from future involvement which had been a problem to him at the start of their talks. He'd wanted to see it in action, to be an adviser, to talk and work with them as they tested it and, hopefully, put it into operation. But he was a liability now, they saw. Sick beyond recovery, the last stages of the illness were already starting to become visible. Felix was suffering from nosebleeds, and his hair was falling out in large clumps. The official who took the program away then left him alone. Now there was nothing to do but die, and the end was very swift. Just thirty minutes after the man had gone, with his legacy in his possession, Felix fell unconscious on the floor of the room that had been his workstation for the past week. He was not to regain consciousness, drifting deeper and deeper away, though it would be three days before his body would be discovered. His time had come, and his passing was as peaceful as was possible.
The special unit from the army who were now in possession of the program would start testing straight away that very night. Its potential was seen for what it could do, blinding the mind of its victim and making him do whatever they wanted, in the belief that it was some premonition he was seeing, some higher calling being given to him to save others. If they could get someone to make the walk and shut down the reactors willingly, then the world had a chance to recover. The UK might survive this disaster, England could one day come alive again. Controlling the mind was one thing. The limitations of the human body remained, and that would take further testing. With so much widespread death and destruction, it was hoped, with justification as it turned out, that there would be someone or something, that would come from it all and give them hope. If someone were somehow less affected by radiation or showed the ability to survive, it would provide them with a window. They were aware, after all, of the secret stories from Japan and Russia after nuclear explosions of the 'walking dead'. Tales of survivors being found, of living beyond what was normal, when everyone else around them had died. These stories were hidden, and the people in question had long since died. It was already estimated that millions were potentially affected in the south of England. Unconfirmed reports had it that the death toll was already at three hundred thousand and this was rising by the tens of thousands each day. With such a huge number of people, it was surely a matter of probability that soon, as in those other countries from years before, there too would be unlikely survivors, and if that was the case, then maybe this program was the lifesaver for which they were looking. Maybe Felix, this strange young man who'd called them out of the blue, had given them one last hope of coming through this nightmare. The only visible prediction now, with the reactor likely to explode at any time, was that life in and around England would not survive if the whole plant were to go up.
It would be very soon that the opportunity would present itself, with the first of three survivors pulled from the debris, wounded, battered and bruised but importantly––very much still alive.
14
Present Day
It was night already before Lorna got a chance to chat with the army team behind the program she was assisting John through. Her patient was now asleep, his third book already looking well read lying beside him on his nightstand. Before getting some sleep herself, she'd wanted to inform them about the two visitors, and she wanted to check to see if they were who they said they were, though she had come to doubt that more and more as the day had gone on.
Taking a few moments to share what she'd been told, she outlined what had happened, and what they'd said, giving the two accounts of who they said they were, and stating she didn't feel either was true.
“Thank you very much for letting us know,” they said.<
br />
“I thought nothing was being said about him being here?”
“As far as we know, nothing has been. We are going to step up security just in case. We'll post two men outside his room at all times and look to increase security going forward. There is no way they could have heard anything from us, though we'll run an internal investigation to be sure of that.”
“Who do you think they are then?” Lorna was a little concerned herself now.
“At this moment, we really can't say.” Lorna looked like she was being shut out. They picked up on this and rephrased the response. “By which we mean, we don't know who they are or what their intentions are if, or when, they find John. We will go after them and try and find out who they are, but that will be another team, and we'll brief them tomorrow. For now, the patient's continued good progress needs to be our number one concern and we'll, therefore, oversee his security. If anything further develops or if you hear about these men coming back again, or anyone else, please alert us straight away.”
“I will.” Lorna got up, and after saying goodnight, went off to find some much-needed sleep.
Meanwhile, outside the hospital the two South African secret service agents were still monitoring the situation, having reported back to HQ their earlier encounter. They were unhappy at how things had gone and concerned that they'd made matters worse. It wouldn't be allowed to happen again, and they'd been told.
