‘Have you ever wondered why most of our cable tunnels and new Underground railway lines inevitably run over budget, and invariably take longer to build than planned? The Victoria and Jubilee lines are prime examples of excavations that have far exceeded their financial allocation and completion dates.’
‘You mean they were used to cover up work on secret sites?’
‘Let’s just say that room for more than just Underground railway lines was made. And all the construction workers – at least those employed on the more sensitive sites – were sworn to secrecy under the Official Secrets Act before they were assigned.’
‘Even so, there must have been leaks.’
‘Quite so, but the D Notice prevented any media exploitation.’
Culver released a short, sharp sigh.
‘So the élite got themselves saved.’
‘Not the élite, Culver,’ Dealey said icily. ‘Key personnel and certain ministers who are necessary to pick the country up off its knees after such a catastrophe. And members of the Royal Family, naturally.’
‘Would they have had time to reach the shelter?’
‘Such provisions are always made possible for Cabinet Ministers and the Royal Family in times of foreign aggression, no matter what particular location they happen to be in. From the headquarters itself an escape route stretches for miles underground. It emerges beneath Heathrow Airport. From there, one can escape to any part of the world.’
‘Unless the airport has been destroyed,’ said Clare Reynolds, cigarette smoke streaming from tight lips.
‘In which case, transport can be provided to another part of the country,’ Dealey replied. He tapped unconsciously on the desktop with his fingers. ‘As yet, we have not been able to communicate with the Embankment headquarters, and it’s vital we make contact soon. We intend to send out a small reconnaissance party to explore the conditions above us when the fallout level permits. We also need to evaluate the state of the tunnels, which may provide a safer route to the main government shelter.’
He stared directly at Culver. ‘We hope you’ll agree to be part of that reconnaissance group.’
‘Are you hungry, Steve?’
‘Since you mention it, yes, I am.’ He grinned at Clare Reynolds, who had asked the question. ‘In fact, I’m starving.’
‘Good, that’s how it should be. You’ll be good as new in a day or two.’ She nodded her head in the general direction of the canteen. ‘Let’s get you something to eat, then I want you to rest for a while. No sense in overdoing things.’
She led the way, Kate and Culver following close behind. ‘I could use a stiff drink after that long meeting,’ she said, looking back at them over her shoulder. ‘It’s a pity the hard stuff is being rationed so frugally.’
‘I could use a drink myself,’ Culver agreed. ‘I guess they didn’t store much away down here, right?’
‘Wrong,’ said Kate. ‘There’s plenty, but Dealey thinks it wise to keep it under lock and key. Too much firewater no good for natives.’
‘He may have a point,’ the doctor said. ‘The natives are restless enough.’
‘It’s really that bad?’
‘Not that bad, Steve, but it’s not good. Dealey may be suffering under a slight persecution complex because most of the resentment is directed towards him as the token government man. But large though this complex is, there’s a certain amount of claustrophobia prevailing, and that coupled with a general feeling of melancholia, even repressed hysteria, could lead to an explosive situation. Too much alcohol wouldn’t help.’
Culver silently had to agree. The atmosphere in the shelter did somehow feel charged and he could understand Dealey’s nervousness. He felt tired once more, the meeting they had just left draining much of the buoyancy he had felt earlier. Culver had been surprised at the elaborate contingency plans that were regularly scrutinized, amended, modified and put into action throughout the decades of the cold war and détente eras, a festering, unspoken conflict, insidious in its durability. Now it had ended, mass destruction the terminator.
Dealey had once again defined the chain of command, but giving more details than he had at the first briefing Culver had attended.
The country would now have been split up into twelve regions, and each one could operate as a separate unit, a self-reliant cell. Under the National Seat of Government would be the twelve regional seats, under these, twenty-three sub-regional headquarters, which would issue orders to county controls, down to district controls and sub-district controls. At the bottom of the list, the last in the pecking order, were the community posts and rest centres.
Each region had its own armed forces headquarters, the regional military commanders and their staff housed in deep bunkers: these forces, working with police and mobilized Civil Defence units, would ensure the new emergency laws were obeyed. Warehouses, pharmaceutical and otherwise, even supermarkets, would now be under strict local government control. Certain buildings, motorways and key roads would be commandeered by the military. Mass evacuation had not been planned. In fact, it would be openly discouraged, for it would cause too much disruption in an already disrupted world, too much disorder to carefully laid-out plans.
Culver shuddered to contemplate the New Order that must have already taken over. Unless of course, the damage had been far greater than anyone had ever anticipated, the world itself dying and unable to respond to any kind of organization.
His thoughts were interrupted. The doctor had come to a halt as an engineer approached her and said something in a low, agitated voice. He turned without waiting for a reply and quickly strode back the way he had come.
‘What’s wrong?’ Culver asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ Dr Reynolds replied, ‘but there seems to be something interesting going on. Ellison wants me to hear something.’
She followed the retreating figure and came to the ventilation plant room.
A group of men, some wearing white overalls, others in ordinary clothes, were gathered around a large air duct, the shaft of which, Culver assumed, rose to the surface. He guessed filters removed any radioactive dust from the air intake. Fairbank was among the group.
‘Something we should know about?’ Dr Reynolds asked of no one in particular, and it was Fairbank who replied. There was a brightness to his eyes, but also an uncertainty.
‘Listen,’ he said, and turned back to the air duct.
Above the hum of the generator they could hear another, more insistent sound. A drumming, a constant pattering.
‘What is it?’ Kate asked, looking at Culver.
He knew, and so did the doctor, but it was Fairbank who answered.
‘Rain,’ he said. ‘It’s raining up there like never before.’
Two: Aftermath
Their time had come.
They sensed it, they knew.
Something had happened in the world above them, a holocaust the creatures could not comprehend; yet they were instinctively aware that those they feared were no longer the same, that they had been damaged, weakened. The creatures had learned from those who had hidden in the tunnels, killing and feeding upon the humans, satisfying a lust that had lain dormant for many years, repressed because survival depended on that repression. The bloodlust had been revived and set loose.
And the tunnels, the sewers, the conduits, the dark holes they had skulked in never knowing nor craving a different existence, had broken, allowing the world of light to intrude upon their own dismal kingdom.
They crept upwards, stealthily, sniffing the air, puzzled at the relentless drumming sound, emerging into the rain that drenched their bristle-furred bodies. The brightness dazzled their sharp eyes at first, even though it was muted an unnatural grey, and they were timid, fearful, in their movement, still hiding from human eyes, still apprehensive of their age-old adversary.
They moved out from the dark places and stole among the ruins of the city, rain-streaked black beasts, many in number, eager for sustenance. Hunting soft
flesh. Seeking warm blood.
10
Sharon Cole thought her bladder might easily burst if she didn’t do something about it soon. Unfortunately, the dark frightened her and she knew that beyond The Pit the darkness was absolute. All the others appeared to be sleeping, their breathing, their snores, and their murmured whimpers filling the small steep-sloped auditorium with sounds. If you couldn’t sleep, the horror was ever-present; yet sleep and the nightmares allowed no peace.
They knew it was night only because their watches told them it was so, and dutifully, by agreement made between them all in the first days, they endeavoured to maintain a natural order, as if adherence to ritual would bring a semblance of normality to abnormal circumstances.
Only three precious candles kept complete darkness at bay, the men deciding the torch batteries were more precious and not to be wasted in hours of inactivity. One or two had suggested a total blackout at night, but the majority, as many men as women, had insisted on keeping some light through the sleeping hours, perhaps believing, like their Neanderthal forefathers, that light held back any oppressive spirits. Most rationalized that there should always be some light source in case of emergencies, and it made sense, but each of them knew they drew comfort from those small flickering flames strategically placed around the underground cinema.
Sharon shifted uncomfortably in the three seats she was sprawled across, the movement only causing the uneasy weight inside to press more insistently. She groaned. Oh God, she’d have to go.
‘Margaret?’ Sharon whispered.
The woman who lay in the same row as her and whose head almost touched Sharon’s did not stir.
‘Margaret?’ she said, a little louder this time, but there was still no response.
Sharon bit into her lower lip. She and the older woman had formed an unspoken alliance over the past few weeks, a bond of mutual protection against the embarrassments as well as the hazards of their predicament. They were among a group of survivors, fewer than fifty in number now that several had recently died. Sharon was just nineteen, a trainee make-up artist from the theatre on the upper level, pretty, slim, and a pseudo-devotee to the arts; Margaret, fiftyish, round, once jolly, and a member of the brown-smocked corps of cleaners to the huge concrete cultural and business complex. Both had offered reciprocal comfort when the stresses of their existence had become too much, their frequent (but becoming less so) breakdowns managed as if by rota, relying on each other to be strong while one was temporarily weak. Both assumed their families – Margaret a husband and three grown-up children, Sharon parents, a younger sister as well as several boyfriends – were lost to the bombs, and both now needed a support, someone to cling to, to rely on. They had become almost like mother and daughter.
But Margaret was sleeping deeply, perhaps for the first time in so many weeks, and Sharon did not have the heart to waken her.
She sat and looked down at the dim rows, each one filled with restless bodies. One candle glowed in the centre of the small stage, its poor light barely reflected from the grey screen behind. To one side lay the hastily gathered and meagre provisions from the destroyed cafeteria two levels above the tiny, plush cinema known as The Pit. The food had cost dearly.
A security guard had led six others, all men, on a forage after one week’s confinement, driven out by hunger. They had brought back as much unspoilt food as they could carry, as well as torches, candles, buckets (to use as water containers), a first-aid kit (which they had yet to use), disinfectant, and curtains for blankets. They had also brought back with them the cancer that was the nuclear bombs’ deadly aftermath.
It was two days before they would talk about the destruction they had witnessed above – no living person had been found, but there had been an abundance of mutilated bodies in the rubble – and three days before the first of them went down with the sickness. Shortly, four were dead, and within days the last two were gone. Their corpses were now lying in one corner of the foyer outside, the curtains they had brought back their shrouds.
And the toilets were also in the black tomb of the foyer.
For Heaven’s sake, Margaret, how could you be sleeping when I need you?
The reception area outside the theatre was regarded almost as an airlock between the survivors and the dust-diseased world above, only to be entered when necessary, the cinema doors kept permanently closed, to be opened briefly for access and then just enough for a body to squeeze through. The danger from radiation out there seemed minimal, for the main staircase, a narrow enough spiral, was blocked by debris (the search party had used the staff staircase which was behind a heavy door). Contained in the foyer were the telephone booths, long, curved seats around small fixed coffee tables, a bar (the stocks of liquor had been transferred to The Pit itself), the lift shafts and the invaluable public conveniences. The latter were invaluable because they provided a source of water (any day now the survivors expected the flow to trickle to a stop) and they meant sanitary hygiene could be maintained. In an effort to preserve the supply, flushing was allowed only at the end of every two days, and the possibility that the drinking water could itself be radiation-contaminated was disregarded on the grounds that if they didn’t drink they would die anyway.
So, Sharon knew she would have to go out there into the high-ceilinged tomb where the dead men lay and walk by candlelight to the toilet. Alone.
Unless another female among the slumbering audience was awake and also needed to pee.
Sharon stood and hopefully scanned the rows of seats, peering through the gloom in search of another upright body. She coughed lightly to gain attention, but nobody acknowledged. It was strange how many hours most of them slept, albeit fitfully, despite the long days’ inactivity. She supposed it had some psychological basis, an escape from the real, shattered world into another of dreams. Pity the dreams were usually so bloody awful.
Her bladder insisted time was running short.
‘Hell,’ she whispered to herself and carefully edged her way towards the aisle, avoiding contact with the occupants of the mauve and green seats. The row she had chosen with Margaret as their resting place – strange how each survivor had marked out their own territory – was close to the exit/entry doors, so there were not too many stairs to climb to reach the back of the auditorium. The material of her tight jeans stretched against her knees and thighs as she cautiously mounted the steps, one hand using the wall on her left for guidance and support. She reached the candle burning by the door and dutifully lit another beside it from the flame, ignoring the flashlight placed alongside for emergencies.
Sharon opened the door a fraction, just enough for her slim body to slide through, the tips of her breasts brushing against the edge. The door closed behind her and she raised the candle high to look around the cold mausoleum.
Back inside the theatre, a figure quietly rose from the darkness.
Fortunately for Sharon, the feeble light did not reach the draped corpses in the far corner, but the smell of their corruption was strong. She quickly crossed the thick-carpeted floor, her steps leaving unseen footprints in the dust that had settled into the pile, heading for the closest toilet, the men’s, desperate to relieve herself and equally desperate to be back among the breathing. The bodies could have been left inside the lift shafts or the staff stairwell, but everyone was reluctant to open any doors leading to the outside since the contaminated search party had been taken ill. Pushing briskly through the toilet door, relieved to be separated from the corpses, Sharon passed by the urinals and washbasins, making for the two cubicles at the far end. The mirrors above the basins reflected the candlelight and ghosted her presence.
Both cubicle doors were ajar and she was glad that tonight had been flushing night: the stench wasn’t too bad. She entered one and, decorum unaffected by circumstances, pushed the bolt to behind her. Retracting her stomach muscles, Sharon released the top button of her jeans, unzipped, and gratefully settled onto the toilet. She sighed deeply at the relief. She gazed
at the candle glow by the gap beneath the cubicle door for several long moments after the flow had stopped. The flame held faces, images, the pattern of her own life, all swimming incandescently before her in that small fire. People and memories, now consumed by a greater fire. Her eyes misted, the glow becoming softer, its edges even less defined, and she forced herself to stop thinking, to stem the spilling tears. There had been too much of that. When the sirens had sounded outside the concrete walls of the Barbican Centre, her only thoughts had been of her own survival. Nothing else – no one else – had mattered. The rush through the panicked crowds, running down the stairs, falling, picking herself up, ignoring the pain, intent on reaching the safest place in the entire complex, the underground cinema. The dash from the huge hall across the covered roadway to the staircase leading down, not using the lifts, knowing they would be crowded, fearing they would become jammed between floors. Others had the same idea, but not many. Fortunately not many. Crowding into the steep-tiered cinema, the blast rocking the foundations of the whole centre, shaking the walls, throwing the ground upwards, the incredible roar, the stifling heat, the . . .
The candle flame leaned towards her, flickering wildly. Disturbed by a draught. She thought she heard the swish of the main door as it closed automatically.
Sharon stood, pulling the jeans over naked hips. She zipped up and listened.
A footstep?
‘Hello?’ Sharon listened again. ‘Hello? Is someone out there?’
Imagination?
Her own nervousness?
Maybe.
She stooped to pick up the candle, then unbolted the cubicle door. Her arm was outstretched, pushing the light into the darkness as she stepped through the door.
Sharon paused, listening once more. The blackness around her was more oppressive; the feeling of confinement, the sensing of millions of tons of broken concrete bearing down on the underground theatre, was almost unbearable. She suddenly felt that the air itself had become thick, somehow sluggish in her lungs, but sensibly told herself it was all nerves, that distress was the instigator and her own imagination was gullible to its suggestions.