by Dave Lacey
“Hmm,” Smithy mumbled before going on. “A psychopath that bleeds just like you and me. You could have bought out at any point you chose to, my friend. Instead you just carried on doing his work for him. What does that make you?” Jack knew Smithy was getting riled. They had no time for this.
“Okay, this shit is getting us nowhere,” Jack snapped, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth. “Where have your friends gone?” he asked through another stab of pain.
“They'll have gone for the emergency exit,” the man said. He moved his hand away from his wound and gestured loosely down the tunnel. “It’s around a mile that way. The tunnel forks off to the right. Follow it. You'll catch them up. Coffey is wounded. He's slowing them down.” The wounded man was getting weaker. Jack knelt and grabbed the lapel of his jacket.
“Where is my son?” he asked, anger filling his chest. The man looked at him, puzzled. “He's ten years old. You took him earlier today, from the tunnels of our community.” The man's face cleared, and his eyes slowly widened in recognition.
“Coffey has him. He's saving him.” Jack felt the dark rush suffuse his lungs. His vision narrowed, became red round the edges.
“Where? Saving him for what?” Jack said through clenched teeth.
“He-he's back there.” The man pointed vaguely over his right shoulder. “He has him in his personal quarters. He likes to torture them...” The man trailed off. Jack wouldn't have sworn, but he thought there were tears in the man's eyes. Jack drew back a fist, then gave up on it. Smithy grabbed his shoulders from behind and hauled him to his feet.
“C'mon, let’s move before this gets out of hand.” They took the torch and moved off down the tunnel at a lurching run. Smithy took the lead, and he could hear Jack struggling behind him. After five minutes of silent running, Smithy paused for breath. Jack knew he was doing it for his benefit, and he smiled in the dark.
“Why have we stopped?” he asked. Smithy leaned forward and grabbed Jack's jacket, stood him up against the wall. He looked Jack in the eye, but Jack couldn't meet his stare. His eyes flicked to the floor. Smithy pulled open Jack’s jacket and his face tightened. Smithy took a deep breath, and let it out with a single word.
“When?” he asked, his face thunderous. Jack thought about shrugging him aside, but thought better of it. His energy was finite.
“Back there, when we hit the floor.” Jack grimaced as he answered, and his hand moved of its own accord to his flank. Smithy knocked it out of the way and pulled up Jack's sweater, he grimaced again at what he saw.
“Jesus Christ. Trying to be the fucking hero once again. You really are a dick.” Smithy glared at Jack. “How bad does it feel?” he asked.
“Not too bad. I don't think it’s too deep, the bullet. But it'll be deformed. It was a ricochet.” Jack felt a flare of pain, but kept it all in. Now was not the time to make matters worse. “We need to get moving,” he said. Smithy's nostrils flared, white rimmed with tension, his eyes were hard.
“No, we don't. We can take our time.” Jack made as if to respond, but Smithy carried on. “They will have heard the gunshots. They're fairly bright. By now, they'll be wondering if their friends got us.” He paused, looked down the tunnel, then went on. “It might make them drop their guard a little.”
“Yeah,” Jack jumped in, “and they might also decide there’s no point in keeping my son alive.” His breathing was ragged again, more so than before. He could feel the deep insistent throb of the wound in his side now. The shock had worn off, taking the last of his adrenaline with it. He had been left with just the pain. And the unbearable knowledge that his son was up ahead, and he might not make it there. “We need to move now. There's no time to waste.” Jack was almost pleading with his friend. Smithy looked at him from the corner of his eye. He was weighing up their chances and next steps.
“Wait here, I'll be five minutes.” He put a hand on Jack's chest to make his point. “Stay. Here.” Jack nodded, and Smithy took off. He was running the wrong way, back the way they had come. Jack was too tired and in too much pain to get angry, but it flickered deep within like a pilot light. It was there, like his Zippo lighter from earlier, pitiful in the dark. He allowed his legs to bend beneath him, and he slumped slowly down the wall. Smithy had blown his chance of finding Jack Junior. But this was Jack’s fault and he knew it. He had been so caught up in his own world, he had neglected his son. His son who was approaching manhood.
He would be eleven soon. He wanted adventure. So he had taken it wherever he could get it. He had gone with Jack’s father, and this had all happened as a result. Jack closed his eyes against the waves of pain. A little food would have gone a long way right now. Anything to replace all that energy he had burned. He opened his eyes, terrified that if he drifted now, he might never wake again.
He looked to his left, and noticed for the first time a faint luminescence. He blinked to clear his vision and any visual disturbance that might have been there. But it was still there. There was light. And it couldn't be too far away. He tried to move, to stand, but it was no use. He had nothing left. He clenched his fingers, testing he could still at least do that.
They curled against the hard cold floor of the tunnel. Jack could feel his pulse, the blood slow and turgid in his lips. Then in his head. It felt like a death knell, as though the drums were beating for him. Calling him home. Ever slowing. He opened his eyes again, not that he could remember closing them consciously. He opened his mouth; his breathing was shallow and his tongue stuck like Velcro to the roof of his mouth.
Where was Smithy? In answer, he heard the thunder of running feet, echoing through the tunnel. His eyes had closed again. He felt a hand slapping him across the face. “Wake up, dumb ass. You're not checking out now. We have work to do.” Smithy was propping something behind his neck, arching his head back slightly. “Drink this,” Smithy said, dribbling a few drops of water past Jack's dry and cracked lips, rehydrating his shrivelled tongue. The effect was instant. Life flowed back into his body. The drops increased into a stream, then a river. Jack's body almost convulsed with relief and pleasure. Then the water was gone. Replaced by something solid. Food. Biscuits to be precise.
Their dry and crisp texture should have been terrible after his body's drought. But the oaty, sugary hit was incredible. Jack chewed softly to begin. Then became ravenous. He ate five or six biscuits, then took more water. The transformation was almost total. He looked at Smithy, his eyes a little misty, then spoke. “That was close. I was drifting.” He could feel moisture on his eyelids.
“Please don't start weeping, that jacket makes you look camp enough as it is. Save the teary speeches for later, we need to be on our way.” Smithy smiled a tight smile and got to his feet. He reached down, took Jack’s lapels in his hands and hauled him to his feet. The two stood chest to chest for a second. Jack just stared at his friend, still a little emotional.
“Jesus Christ,” said Smithy. “Don't fucking kiss me. There's no coming back from that.”
“You really are an arse,” Jack muttered, and pushed himself away from the wall. His hand went straight to his side. Smithy frowned.
“Yeah, we should probably plug that before we move on.” Smithy said. Jack shook his head.
“No, let’s get this thing done, then you can butcher me.” He smiled. “It'll be alright for now. Where did the food come from?” Jack asked as they moved off towards the sultry glow down the tunnel.
“Our friends from the skirmish. I figured they'd be useful, and I was right.” Jack could almost hear his friend’s smile in the dark.
“You’re very smug sometimes, you know that,” Jack said, his voice little more than a whisper.
“If that's your way of thanking me, then it’s shit. I saved your life, Sumner, and not for the first time.”
They stopped talking, as the light grew brighter. They walked for another two minutes, and then stopped dead in their tracks. Up ahead, in the dark, came the unmistakable sound of a pump action shotgun b
eing racked. Then came a voice, lazy and arrogant in its delivery.
“Who the fuck goes there?” A croaky chuckle followed it. Jack froze. What now? He felt Smithy tense next to him, before he spoke.
“Elias and Andrews.” Jack's breath felt suspended. Deep in his chest, unable to exit. There was a brief pause, then the arrogant voice came again.
“Where are the others?” In the following silence, they heard the sound of metal scraping on stone. The man ahead had taken one hand from the gun and let the muzzle tip touch the floor. Smithy moved forward while answering with a single word.
“Dead.”
“Fuck,” the man said. They were almost level with him when Smithy spoke again.
“Yeah, it’s a real shame, shithead.” He moved quick, striking like a cobra. He darted forward and plunged his hunting knife into the man’s throat. It was a fatal strike, and prevented him from crying out and giving them away. He fought in silence for a few seconds, before Smithy helped him to the floor.
“Two more and the injured Coffey to go,” said Smithy.
“How did you know?” Jack asked.
“I asked them their names when I went back for the food. Though I wasn't sure they were telling me the truth.”
As the man lay on the ground, his pulse now weak and fading, Jack staggered to the wall. Smithy was quick and solicitous. He appeared at Jack’s side, supporting him, preventing him from falling all the way down. Jack’s breathing was short. His eyes were closed and he could feel his pulse thundering behind his eyes.
“Look, you need to stay here. I can finish the rest of them off,” Smithy told him. Jack brushed aside Smithy’s arm and pushed himself away from the wall.
“Sorry, but no,” he said, still half bent from the waist. “If I don’t go with you, I may regret it for the rest of my life. Whatever’s left of it.” Smithy snorted through his nose.
“Really, and you think you can do it do you?” Smithy asked, his tone mocking. “Okay, smart arse, do it. Come with me.” And Smithy turned and began to walk further into the pale, growing light. He made it ten yards before he turned to see where Jack was. He hadn’t got far.
“Well, obviously I meant with your help,” Jack managed before another stab of pain took him over. Smithy turned to look at Jack. As Jack watched him, Smithy’s face hardened.
“No. You wanna come with me, you have to do it on your own. I can do this much better without you on this occasion.” Smithy turned without waiting and strode down the tunnel. Jack watched him go, scarcely able to believe it. His friend’s back receded within seconds, as the dark reached out its tentacles and drew him in. Jack stood for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably more like a minute.
He turned slightly so that his back was flat to the tunnel wall. He stood up straight and gulped in as much air as his tortured lungs would allow. It was possible that the deformed bullet had punctured his lung. He hoped that wasn’t the case. If it was, he was already dead. They would never make it back in time, and, even if they did, there was no guarantee that the medical staff would be able to help him.
His eyes opened. It was possible he may have had a mini black out. He resumed his train of thought. If the bullet had hit his ribs and intercostals, then that would explain his difficulty in breathing. Although heavy blood loss and exhaustion would also account for most of what he was feeling right now. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He had to go on. He galvanized himself, closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and pushed himself away from the wall. His head swam the instant he was away from his safety blanket.
A wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him, and he bit his lip. Blood gushed into his mouth and down his chin. But it sharpened him. He turned to face the dim light, and walked. Progress was slow, but it was there nonetheless. He heard a sound from up ahead. A muffled scuffling sound. He tried to speed up, but couldn’t. He tried to figure out how far ahead Smithy was, but couldn’t.
But he did become aware of the change in the ground under his feet. The smooth surface had given way to a much softer, uneven surface. A few steps further on, he could feel and hear the slosh of water beneath his feet. The tunnel was letting in water somewhere ahead. Jack’s lips were very dry now, and his mouth became gummy. He wasn’t sure whether it was because of his sudden thirst, or the relative silence of the tunnel, but he could hear the steady drip of water, or some kind of liquid off to his left.
He licked his lips reflexively. Then shook his head again, annoyed at the distraction. But he had no further time for distractions, as from up ahead came a gunshot. He felt a little strength flow into his veins, and he moved forward. It wasn’t so much a run as a controlled stagger. He lurched forward, his feet sloshing in the ever deeper water. The light grew stronger the further on he went.
A few more steps, and he came across a body. Another of the enemy lay awkwardly in the water. The angle the head was held at told Jack the man’s neck was broken. Good, Jack thought. Rather you than Smithy. Where the man lay was a small cleft in the tunnel wall. A branch that turned back on itself, so that the new tunnel ran back in the opposite direction to the one he had been taking. Jack put out his arms to steady himself; the tunnel was narrower in construction – it made it easier for him to stay upright and feed his way further into the maze. He silently cursed the water at his feet, but there was nothing he could do to avoid the sloshing sounds that accompanied each step. He slowed down, his speed negligible, so that he did not disturb whoever was ahead of him.
As the sound of the water died away, Jack could hear a voice around the turn. A smug, patronizing voice, lecturing somebody. He knew it wasn’t Smithy by the tone. Jack crept to the end of the wall on his left, his whole body taut, his movements slow. The voice got clearer.
“... major mistake. You should never have followed us down here boy. It’s the little shit in the corner you were after isn’t it? Answer me, boy.”
“Go fuck yourself, dickhead,” came the response. That one was definitely Smithy. Defiant, and grossly stupid. The other voice came again.
“Boy, you got a mouth on you, I’ll give you that. But let’s be honest, it hasn’t worked out too well for you this time has it? I mean, you almost got done what you came here to do. But now I’m the one holding the gun, and you’re the one’s bleeding all over the floor.” The voice gave a chuckle.
“Well now let’s look at things,” Smithy replied. “It appears to me that you’re bleeding too. And I can tell you from personal experience that yours is no flesh wound. It took you low in the stomach, which means you’ll have all kinds of perforations and internal bleeding.” Smithy paused, then went on in his matter of fact tone. “So, whichever way you stack it, you’re fucking dead. I, on the other hand, will be up and about in no time at all, pissing on what can passably be described as your grave.” Jack heard the snick of the hammer being pulled back – the voice had loaded the chamber and was ready to fire.
“That’s not how I see it,” the man said. “I may be living on borrowed time, but you, my friend, will not be doing any dancing. And that little prize in the corner will be following both of us into the next life. Wherever that may be. And I’ll have some fun with him too before he goes there.”
That was enough for Jack. He pulled the automatic pistol from his waistband, and, as quiet as he could, stepped round the corner into the light. Smithy was slumped in the corner opposite Jack, crumpled, but otherwise okay. The man, Coffey Jack assumed, was standing to Smithy’s left and to Jack’s right, holding the gun straight out from him. Smithy saw Jack first, and spoke.
“Ah, glad you could join us.” Coffey turned his head quick, as though not wanting to fall for the same trick Millie had before. His eyes flew wide, his mouth dropped open and slack when he saw Jack. Jack’s eyes flitted to the corner of the room, where a small figure was curled on a pile of discarded clothing. Jack only allowed himself the briefest of looks. “It’s Junior.” Smithy advised Jack.
Coffey’s gun swung round to mee
t Jack’s, and the two men looked at each other over the barrels of their guns. Jack’s unsteadiness had left him. His gun arm was straight and steady. Coffey, on the other hand, looked frightened, and he was trembling. He opened his mouth to speak. “Look, let’s–” That was as far as he got. Jack shot him through his open mouth, the bullet exiting just above the top of Coffey’s spine. It dragged pink matter with it as it spun with tremendous velocity until it hit the wall behind him.
Coffey collapsed straight to the ground. It was over before it began, his final words cut off before they had a chance to be aired. Jack dropped the gun he was carrying and staggered to the corner where Jack Junior lay. His balance was shot. The room started to spin. Jack collapsed before he reached his son.
Chapter 15
Lech Veerhan sat back in his chair. So this was it. This was their chance. His outward appearance was that of a man merely pondering the ramifications of the latest discovery. Inwardly, he was afire with a burning curiosity and excitement. Ridiculous as it sounded, the engineers and scientists seemed convinced of its efficacy. Their excitement was contagious; their enthusiasm genuine. He risked a look at the others around the table: Markesson, head of engineering; Rasmussen head of operations; Schultz, head of science; Atherton, head of it all. And himself, deputy head of operations.
There were other ‘heads of’, of course, but it was felt they were not required at this particular juncture. That would come later, when they knew more. Derin Atherton’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“… and that’s how it will stay. We can’t give away too much at this moment in time. It would cause too much chatter, too much hope.” Atherton’s voice and face were filled with sadness. There were many presidents and prime ministers here on the Moon, but this man was uniquely qualified to run the outfit. The others tried to hide their frustration, but Veerhan could smell it.
