At first he fought against the weight, but as he struggled a notion sifted through the terror, nudging him in a quiet, stealthy manner. Why bother to fight? the thought asked, why resist when death was inevitable?
He tried to heave the metal bed from him, its mattress floating down onto his face as if conspiring with the water to smother him.
Wasn’t this a better way to die? the inner voice said slyly. Wasn’t this preferable to madness and pain?
The cot rose a few inches then slumped back as though another weight had been added to it, perhaps someone climbing onto it to keep free of the flood.
One or two minutes of unpleasantness before drifting off to sleep, a sleep deeper and more peaceful than you’ve ever known, one that could never be interrupted, never infringed upon. Never again tainted with living.
Yes, it was good, it was desirable. But the pain now; how can I accept the pain now?
Easily. Don’t resist, that’s the secret, that’s the way. A few bad moments and then you’ll drift. You’ll see.
Am I already mad? Has the disease struck so fast?
No, no, not mad. Dying so effortlessly will be the sanest thing you’ve ever done.
My lungs are tearing. It hurts, it hurts!
Not for long. Breathe in the water, one large swallow, then no more pain.
I can’t. I’m afraid.
It’s easier than you think.
Who are you?
I’m your friend. I’m you.
Will you stay with me?
Always.
For ever . . .
. . . . and ever . . .
. . . amen? . . .
. . . amen . . .
The last of Bryce’s air escaped in a huge, convulsive bubble, and although he was screamingly afraid, and although his arms and his head thrashed the water, the pain, as the inner voice promised, was not for long.
Soft layers of unconsciousness began to fold over his eyes, like silky gossamer; the discomfort of not breathing relaxed and spiralled away, the anguish tapering with it. The feeling of helplessness was not so disagreeable and the suffering was beginning to subside, to torment less and less and less . . .
It was as the voice said: Easy.
No longer to be a refugee from the holocaust with no certain future, no longer a victim of the disease which spoiled the mind as well as the body. No grief now, little sorrow. A fading sadness. Peacefully, softly drifting. His inner voice had not lied. The weight from his chest gone. Floating. Upwards. Rising. Upwards. Something pulling? Hurting him? Hands on him? No, not that, not now! It was settled! It was accepted! Leave meeeeeee . . .
He burst through the bubbling surface, water jetting from his lungs, and tried to free himself of the hands that had yanked him from the restful peace. The choking muffled his protests as the two men held him; the pain returned, racking his muscles.
‘Punch his back!’ Farraday yelled. ‘He’s choking!’
Dazzling light blinded Bryce as he felt someone move around him. A sudden hard blow arched his back and he spluttered water and sickness over the two men. Another blow and he was retching, desperate to suck in air, involuntarily fighting for breath where just a moment ago it had been a relief to find it blissfully unnecessary.
Webber, one of the two engineers who had accompanied Farraday to the sick bay and who was now standing behind Bryce, slapped the Civil Defence officer between his shoulder-blades, using the flat of his hand this time and not his fist. Bryce’s own body reaction was clearing his throat and lungs, making outside force no longer necessary.
‘Looks like we got to him just in time,’ Webber shouted to Farraday. The second engineer, Thomas, was helping the woman who had fallen onto the bunkbed, the added weight that had pinned Bryce to the floor. He dragged her towards the door, the deluge less violent now that the water level inside the sick bay matched the level outside. Yet it was strong enough to make them stagger and fall. Encumbered by the dead weight of the hysterical woman, Thomas flailed around in the gloom beneath the waterline, tugging at the arm that hugged his neck. He broke the hold and pushed himself upright, the woman rising with him. She clung to him, a hindrance that could drown them both. He changed his mind about rescuing her.
Thomas pushed her away with a hand around her throat, then smashed a fist into her upturned face. Teeth broke under his knuckles and she fell away from him, sinking, a spasm of bubbles breaking the uneven, choppy surface. Aghast at what he had done but nevertheless relieved to be rid of her, Thomas headed for the door, ignoring the shouts from behind.
Farraday had witnessed the incident and he raged inside, unable to help, his own hands full with Bryce, who was sagging as though eager to drown, unwilling to help himself. To Farraday’s surprise, the woman blustered to the surface just a few feet away, her eyes dazed but still pleading.
Still helping Webber keep Bryce on his feet with one hand, Farraday reached out for the woman with the other, grabbing one arm as she began to sink again, and pulling her over to him. Her head rested against his chest and she seemed momentarily calmed, as if trusting him to save her.
‘Let’s get out!’ Farraday shouted to Webber. ‘We can’t help any more!’ He called for the others to follow, hoping they would hear, averting his eyes from the rear section of the sick bay, afraid of seeing something that would compel him to wade down there and help. These two, Bryce and the woman, were enough.
They began moving towards the door, a tightly packed foursome, fighting the undertow, careful not to trip over unseen loose objects.
Bryce allowed himself to be carried along, neither helping nor hindering. His mind was in a peculiar turmoil, a jumbled mixture of regret and elation. He knew what it was to die and it wasn’t so frightening.
Not actually scary at all, was it?
Perhaps just a little bit.
But infinitely better than living with excruciating pain.
Oh yes, anything was better than that.
And let’s not forget the gross indignity of madness.
No, let’s not forget that.
Ah, pleasant death.
Yes.
With no true oblivion.
No.
Then where are you going?
I . . . don’t know. They’re help . . .
Do you want to be helped? Is that what you really want? More torture? Would you welcome insanity, would you enjoy it?
I . . .
Would you?
Leave me alone!
But I am you, how can I leave you?
‘LEAVE ME ALONE!’
‘It’s okay, Bryce, we’ve got you. There’s another way out of the shelter. We can make it.’
He stared into the face of Farraday, barely recognizing the senior engineer. He tried to speak but did not know what to say.
‘It’s all right,’ Farraday told him. ‘Just try to help us, try to walk.’
He did as he was asked, closing out the distant inner voice that was no longer soothing but angry, telling him what a fool he was being.
‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Save your breath, man.’ Farraday’s own breath came in short, sharp groans, the effort beginning to tell on him. ‘We can’t hear you, so don’t try to speak. Conserve your energy.’
Through the open doorway, the light seemed less bright and Farraday supposed the power was fluctuating again until he noticed and smelled the rolling smoke. Thomas was standing just outside the doorway, gaping down the corridor, his damp face a mask of dread, unsteady as water surged around his chest.
By the time they themselves reached the door, Thomas was rapidly heading for the switching units, seeming to swim and wade at the same time. Farraday peered towards the source of Thomas’s obvious distress, the thick billowing smoke stinging his eyes, forcing him to squint. He just had time to observe flames licking from the test room area when the complex rocked with thunder and searing white light rushed towards him, melting the protective film over his eyes, stripping the skin from his face.
He fell back, carried by the blast, and water smothered his flaming hair, steam rising in a brief cloud from his burnt face. He shrieked and black water eagerly raced in, reducing the sound to a bubbling gurgle.
The others had fared no better and, to Bryce, it was just the continuation of the long nightmare. He had been partly protected by the senior engineer who stood directly in front of him and who had taken the full brunt of the explosion. Farraday’s weight had been thrown against him, forcing him down, away from the flames, extinguishing the burning bandages on his mutilated hand, instantly soothing the scorching white heat that had exposed all the nerves on one side of his face, vaporizing the fire that had gristled his right ear. The water welcomed him back.
The tidal wave that followed, tightly packed into the narrow corridor, picked up all four of the burnt survivors and hurtled them along in a boiling stream, catching Thomas as it went, scraping their bodies along the walls, smashing into the machinery that finally blocked the tidal wave’s path.
His neck was broken and other bones had snapped, yet Bryce could hear the voice again, homing in from a distance, soon drawing near.
Are you ready now? it asked, just a little sulkily.
He could feel himself spinning, another bone crunching somewhere in his arm as it hit something solid, and although he turned and twisted, he was not giddy, nor confused.
Have you had enough?
Oh yes.
Then breathe in the water.
I have. I’m filled with it.
A sigh. Well, not much longer.
I can still sense.
Yes, but you can’t feel.
No, everything’s numb.
Pleasant?
Very.
I told you. Any fear?
A little.
It’ll pass. Very soon.
Where am I going?
You’ll see.
Is it nice?
No answer.
Is it nice?
It’s different. Nice doesn’t matter.
I trust you.
No answer, but this time an answer wasn’t necessary.
Bryce followed the voice that no longer spoke, drifting lazily after the sound-shadow into a strange, deep void, a total absence that was all, to find that it was true: Nice did not matter. Nice didn’t matter at all.
Their bodies were churned and broken as they found their own, separate deaths, each one different, individual.
Water gushed through the complex, and the fire followed at a slower, yet no less lethal pace.
19
Culver searched for Kate, the red glow emanating from the fire in another part of the complex his only source of light. A huge wave had just passed over them, tossing their bodies like corks on an ocean, but now the level had settled to its former roughness once again. Smoke descended as if to join forces with the floodwater in absolute destruction. He glimpsed Dealey braced against the wall, his face red but eyes white. The black engineer, Jackson, was next to him, the others gone, presumably swept back along the corridor their human chain had straddled.
‘Kate!’ Culver cried, afraid for her. She emerged from the dark water a few feet away from him, sweeping her head to one side to free her face and hair from the wetness. She sucked in air and immediately began to cough as acrid smoke rushed in. He plunged towards her, a hand encircling her waist, and pulled her back against the wall for support. He held her steady until the coughing had subsided, relieved that the smoke had begun to drift upwards, no longer disturbed by other forces. It was a brief respite, for he knew that the shelter would soon fill with the choking fumes, just as it might soon fill completely with floodwater.
There seemed to be hardly any energy left in Kate as she slumped against him. Her forehead nuzzled against his cheek, and she said, ‘It’s no use, is it, Steve? We haven’t a chance.’
He was tempted to drag her over to the catwalk and climb up, to lie there and pray that the flames and smoke would die away, that the floodwater would gradually subside. That the mutant vermin would choose to ignore them.
‘We’ve got one last shot,’ he told her, ‘and we’re going to take it.’
The shaft was their only chance.
A small ray of hope came literally from Fairbank, who shone the flashlight at them from the Operations Room doorway.
‘I’m coming over!’ he shouted, his voice barely audible over the confusion of sounds.
‘Wait a minute!’ Culver called back. ‘There’s a bad pull there; we’ll help you across!’
‘Okay! I’ve got a lamp as well as a waterproof flashlight. I’m going to toss it over.’
He switched on the second light and reached across the corridor as far as he could without getting caught in the treacherous currents. Culver had moved closer on the other side of the opening and caught the lamp deftly as Fairbank gently lobbed it over. He passed it back to Dealey.
‘Keep it on us! Jackson, grab my arm and don’t let go!’
Once he felt his upper arm gripped, Culver moved away from the relative protection of the wall. The current tugged at his legs immediately and he leaned into it, his other arm stretched towards Fairbank. The engineer, clutching the rubber-insulated flashlight and something else in his left hand, reached out to Culver with his right. He had to make his own way for at least a foot, then their fingers curled around each other’s wrists and Culver pulled as Jackson drew him in.
They caught their breath on the other side and eventually Fairbank gasped, ‘This bloody water’s getting higher.’
Culver felt the choppy surface just below his armpits. ‘We haven’t got much long—’
A scream from Kate and they turned to see the dark shapes streaming towards her lit clearly by the lamp Dealey held. There were three of them, yellow eyes just above the waterline, perhaps sensing the most vulnerable in the group, the easy prey.
Fairbank’s speed was remarkable. He leapt forward, the water barely slowing his movement, torch in his left hand, the other object now transferred to his right, raised high. He brought the blade down hard and swift, decapitating the leading rat, pulling the weapon clear and striking again, catching the second rat across its back, severing the spine.
The rat squealed, the cry eerily infantile, and blood gushed from the wound in a dark fountain. The cutter was more difficult to pull free this time, but the third rat veered away as its companions sank. It found the shadows and hid itself, keening for others who had been scattered by the thundering noise and who now crouched in other places, squealing and afraid of the smoke and approaching flames. They found each other in the dark, regrouping, massing together, for their combined force was their strength.
The four men gathered around the girl, Culver tried to soothe her, the others anxious to be on their way.
‘We’ve no time to lose, Culver,’ Dealey said agitatedly, his head close to the pilot’s, the lamp beam constantly moving, searching the area around them.
Curious, Culver ignored him. ‘What the hell did you use there?’ he said to Fairbank.
The engineer grinned and held his prize aloft, shining the torch onto it. ‘Guillotine blade,’ he announced. ‘The guillotine was kept close to the photocopier in the Ops Room. I managed to break off the blade.’ He swished it in the air like a straight, thick-backed cutlass.
‘Come on, we’ve no time for this!’ Dealey urged.
‘Link arms, like before,’ Culver ordered. ‘Let me have the lamp. You behind me, Dealey, Kate in the middle between you and Jackson. Fairbank, you take the rear. The idea is to all keep together.’
They moved off, aware that the smoke was becoming more dense, the water-level higher, but unaware that the rats were regrouping above them.
It wasn’t long before Culver and the others found themselves inside the ventilation plant, spurred on by the threat all around, the red glow becoming a brighter orange, shadows dancing on the walls and ceiling, fiery highlights bouncing off the water’s black surface. There was less smoke inside the plant room itself
and the floodwater was calmer. It was quieter in there, too.
‘Over there!’ Dealey pointed. ‘That’s the central air duct.’
Culver’s beam lit up the shaft. ‘Can we get through? Isn’t there machinery inside?’ he asked, frowning.
‘No, the plant itself is really in a building above us. That’s where the filters, cooling and heating units, and humidifiers are. This is just the main shaft for circulating the air; other, smaller ducts run off from it.’
The water level was almost up to their shoulders as they waded and half-swam towards the wide shaft.
‘Any ideas on how we get inside?’ Culver asked, for the ventilation grille itself was not in sight. It was something they had all pushed to the back of their minds, directing their efforts on one problem at a time, unwilling to think too far ahead lest they become totally discouraged. The fact that the entry point to the ventilation shaft was under water had now to be faced. They grouped around the shaft, bedraggled and feeling trapped. Culver tried to remember what the grille had looked like, how it was sealed.
‘Is the grille screwed into the shaft, or is there a lock?’ he asked Dealey.
The reply was despairing. ‘There’s a lock to give the maintenance people easy access. I don’t have that particular key.’
Culver exchanged the lamp for Fairbank’s insulated flashlight and plunged it down, hoping it really was waterproof. The beam glowed beneath the surface, diffused but strong enough to see by. His head and shoulders followed and he found the metal gridwork before him. He searched for the edges, his fingers running along the rim. He soon found the lock and examined it closely, the torch and his head only inches away. He rose to the surface, releasing the last of his breath and gasping in another deep lungful.
‘We’re lucky the opening isn’t screwed into the wall – I think I can break it open,’ he told the others who were watching anxiously. Holding a hand out towards Fairbank, he said, ‘Let me have the blade.’
The engineer handed him the makeshift weapon, realizing what he was about to do.