‘We’ll manage something. Just be careful and don’t take any chances.’
Fairbank clicked his tongue against his teeth and pointed. The three men set off together, backs to the sun, heading towards the area that had once been High Holborn.
Culver and the others watched the mist swallow them up. It was an eerie and foreboding sight, and the immense emptiness they left behind had little to do with unoccupied space.
Culver shook off the feeling, concentrating on the task in hand. ‘Kate, will you help Ellison collect wood – branches, fencing, anything that hasn’t burned to charcoal – and bring it here? Any paper would help too – search the litter bins. And keep within shouting distance.’
Ellison appeared ready to object, but evidently thought better of it. He walked away, a hand brushing flies from the air before him, and Kate went with him.
Culver slowly turned to face the last man left with him. ‘Just me and you now, Dealey. I’ve got one or two questions and you’re going to give me straight answers. If not, I’ll break your bloody neck.’
22
Alex Dealey shifted uncomfortably against the tree stump, its blackened, jagged shape rising above him like an accusing finger pointed at the night sky. Not far away, the fire that had been kindled earlier in the day and constantly fed with anything that would burn, hued the mist orange. The blaze was welcome not just for its warmth against the sudden chill of the night air, but because it held the all-prevailing darkness at bay, and with it, its terrors. The others, except Culver and the girl, who it would appear had found warmth and comfort in each other, stayed close to the protective glow, gazing into the brightness, conversing in low-murmured voices. Occasionally laughter broke the quiet tones, although never raucous, always subdued, as if the men were afraid the sound might carry to hostile ears. Dealey stayed apart from the group, his hunched shoulders covered by one of the blankets the three engineers had brought back with them from their forage into the ruins, for their resentment of him was obvious, unequivocal, and discomforting. Fools. Ungrateful bloody fools.
He pulled the blanket over his head, holding the sides tight under his chin so that he resembled a huddled monk, only his nose and the tip of his chin caught in the fire glow. He smelled of insect repellent and antiseptic ointment, these too salvaged from the ravaged city, and a plaster covered a cut on his forehead, another a larger wound on the back of his hand, both injuries sustained in their escape from the shelter. The three engineers had been gone longer than expected, causing concern among those who had stayed. There had been no need to worry, though, for their delay had been caused by the amount of useful items they had managed to scavenge.
Quite a few of the shops had been destroyed by fire, while others had been completely buried by the debris of office blocks they were housed beneath; some, however, although badly damaged, could be reached by cautious digging. Two café-restaurants, a hardware store and a pharmacist had been unearthed, and Jackson had remembered an up-market bedding centre from where they had retrieved sheets and blankets in which they could carry their prizes. The men were ashen-faced when they returned, not even the accumulation of dirt disguising their skin’s paleness, and had refused to speak of the harrowing sights they had witnessed, only Fairbank mentioning that piles of bodies had been blasted into corners or against rubble mounds like so much litter by fierce winds. They had come across no living person.
The fire, lit with a lighter taken from a corpse by Ellison, had been a beacon to them in the humid mists once they had found their way back to the desolated square in which the blackened park was situated, and they had proudly, if quickly, displayed their spoils. Four short-handled axes, honed to a lethal sharpness, two hammers, and six long knives had been brought back as utensils or weapons, whichever purpose they lent themselves to at any time. Flashlights, already battery-loaded, thin rope, spoons, scissors, two can-openers, paper cups, a miniature camping stove along with a Calor gas cylinder, had been retrieved from the hardware store. From the pharmacist (which had proved the hardest to enter, but considered worth the risk and effort) came bandages, Band-aids, cotton wool, antiseptic cream, insect repellent, bicarbonate of soda, glucose tablets and vitamin pills, water purifying Sterotabs and, considered extremely important, three rolls of toilet tissue. Fairbank discreetly handed Kate two small packages which Dealey guessed contained tampons (he also suspected birth control pills were wrapped up with them, for he knew that Dr Reynolds had strongly encouraged all the surviving women in the shelter to use the contraceptive tablets thoughtfully provided by the government among the medical supplies).
The few battery-operated radios they had come upon were either completely dead or had only emitted heavy static. As for food, they had taken whatever canned items they could find, but not too much for it would prove too cumbersome and, once they travelled on, finding further supplies should not present too great a problem. The three engineers had expressed delight at how much canned food was kept by the café-restaurants as they produced their tinned harvest of beans, soup, chicken breast in jelly, ham, sausages, tongue, peas, asparagus, carrots, peaches, pineapple chunks, condensed milk, and coffee. Cans of Coke and lemonade were also brought along in case they could not find an adequate source of water. They had all laughed when Culver had admitted he was glad they had decided not to bring back a lot of food.
Fairbank received loud commendations when he produced two bottles of Black Label Johnnie Walker.
Food was heated in its tins on the small stove while Kate treated and dressed the various wounds among the group. They were all grateful for the insect repellent, for the air was plagued with pests. Equal shares of food were dispersed among the plastic cups and nobody seemed to mind the agglutination of meat and vegetables; they ate as though this was their first meal for weeks and was to be their last for a similar period. The dessert followed in new cups and Coke was drunk straight from the tins. Jackson almost upstaged Fairbank with his whisky by producing four packs of cigarettes from his trouser pockets like a magician manifesting cute rabbits from thin air.
The alcohol, the cigarettes, and the filled stomachs contrived to create a mood of calmness, a natural enough counter-balance to the tension they had endured for so long. They spoke of their future hopes rather than the past tragedy, each one unconsciously trying to evoke some aspiration, something that could be salvaged from their shattered lives.
Dealey had not shared in the conversation, but had sat moodily staring into the fire.
Dusk fell swiftly, more swiftly than was natural for that time of year, and the steam, slowly dissipating throughout the long afternoon, fell low as if humbled by the incredible sunset that followed. They stood as one and gazed into the western sky, their upturned faces bathed in the reflected flare.
The huge, swift-rolling clouds, a confused combination of alto-cumulus and nimbo-stratus, were coloured in violent shades of red, orange, and yellow, their bellies streaked a dazzling gold, their ragged heights pure vermilion. They moved like mountains across the sky, vivid and powerful, overwhelmingly beautiful, and as the survivors watched they felt the earth itself could ignite once more by being so close to their boiling fury. Even though the sun’s fiery brilliance was diffused by clouds and atmospheric dust, they could not look directly at it, for its intensity was too blinding, its effulgence too destructive; the sun, too, seemed outraged by the satellite planet which had dared to re-create a facsimile power to its own.
Jagged glittering streaks patterned the sky like thin, dashed brushstrokes; these were not clouds but dust particles, coalesced and held aloft by warm, rising air currents. In the far distance some were descending vertically like heaven-thrown javelins.
The sky to the east was no less stunning, although its redness was more crimson, its clouds a deep amber in parts. All movement was in that direction as if sucked in by some giant vortex beyond the horizon. The spectacle was both awesome and frightening.
As they watched, spellbound, the red boiling anger gradua
lly subsided, for the sun was sinking further into the horizon, turning the dusk into a softer, less frenzied vision, a warm richness subduing the violent-tossed clouds so that their hurried drifting became graceful, flowing rather than rushing.
The sun disappeared – and again, its descent seemed unnaturally fast – casting in its wake a shimmering radiance that lit the underbellies of the clouds so they seemed glutted with blood. Darkness encroached, a definite curve, vignetted only slightly, moving steadily but warily forward as if afraid of being scorched. With it came a half-moon, indistinct and rust-stained, peeping only occasionally through the clouds, as though reluctant to bear witness to the spoiled earth below.
The temperature had cooled with the sun’s fading, but only slightly; still the group moved closer to the fire and Dealey wondered if a primitive fear had been reborn. There was a silence between them for some time, each person intimidated yet uplifted by what they witnessed. Gradually, conversation resumed and more food was cooked and consumed. The second whisky bottle was emptied.
Evening became night and stars were hidden behind clouds and dust that layered the upper atmosphere; the elusive half-moon changed from russet to a pale sanguine (like the last of Christ’s blood on the Cross, Dealey had thought, the final trickle that had run like water; perhaps the moon reflected the blood spilt below). Dealey moved away from the fire, tired of the others’ attitude towards him, resenting their scorn. They didn’t – couldn’t – understand his importance to them, how he and he alone had seen them through the worst of the disaster, guided them through those early days, organizing, administrating – taking on the damned responsibility! The events of the day, with its discoveries, and the relief from the violence of the preceding night, had obviously enhanced their drunkenness, for they treated him as though he, personally, had pressed the button that had precipitated this third and final world war. It was a mood that classified government circulars dealing with what was termed the ‘ultimate confrontation’ had warned against. Civil unrest, aggression against the authoritative body. Subversion, anarchy, revolution. Events inside the Kingsway shelter had proved the correctness of the government view. And even now, when he had led this miserable few to safety (in that his knowledge had provided the escape route) they treated him with disrespect.
He shivered, glad of the blanket, for the warm clamminess of the evening had finally given way to the night’s chill. He had watched Culver and the girl leave the fireside, they too taking a blanket with them (for warmth or cover?). It was obvious why they wanted to be alone. Wonderful aphrodisiac was death.
He shook his head, the movement lost beneath the blanket. Culver could have been a useful ally, yet he chose to side with the . . . the – Dealey refused to allow the word to form in his mind, but the thought was there anyway – the rabble. The pilot’s interrogation earlier in the day had been discourteous to say the least. Harsh, even brutal, might be more appropriate.
—Exactly how many entrances to the main government headquarters below the Embankment were there?—
—Would some still be accessible?—
—Could the shelter have been flooded?—
—Specify the separate tunnels leading to it—
—When was the shelter built?—
—Before which World War: this one, the last one, or the first?—
—Had the government been prepared for this war?—
—How long before the bombs dropped was the evacuation into the shelter taking place? Hours, days, weeks?—
—How many days?—
—What number of people could the shelter hold?—
—Jesus, how were they all chosen?—
—Apart from government and military personnel—
—What skills and what trades?—
—Why those? What bloody influence did they have on the government? What made them so valuable?—
—Planners? What the hell could they plan except how to make money from the ashes?—
—How long could everybody exist down there?—
A pause. An angry, tight-lipped pause. And then
—Would they, this small group of survivors, be allowed in?—
Dealey had answered the questions, calmly at first, but eventually becoming outraged, himself, by Culver’s anger. He, Dealey, was only a minion, he didn’t run the bloody show, he wasn’t privy to every government document or decision. If he had been, he would have been inside the headquarters his bloody self! He just wished they would all get it into their thick skulls that he was nothing more than a glorified bloody building inspector! That was the only reason he had keys and inside knowledge. All right, he was intended to be one of the privileged few, but wasn’t included in the early evacuation and, as it turned out, he was lucky to have survived at all. And someone had to take charge down there, in the Exchange, otherwise the survivors would have degenerated into a disorganized, defeatist mob!
His outburst had meant nothing to Culver, for the questioning was not yet over. The pilot was curious about the rats.
Unlike before, when Dealey had been questioned inside the shelter on this special breed of vermin, he finally (and it was obvious to Culver, with no remorse over his previous lie) admitted that he knew they had not been entirely eliminated, nor could they be unless the whole of London’s underground network, the sewers, the canals, the railway tunnels, and all basement areas were filled with poison gases or compounds, and even then there would have been no guarantee of total eradication. The task would be too dangerous and too immense. And the vermin could always flee into the surrounding suburbs. Even so, the numbers were thought to be so small that there would be no real danger to the community as a whole and certainly a massive purge on the vermin would cause unnecessary panic in the capital’s populace. Far better to be vigilant and act swiftly and silently should there be evidence that they were growing in numbers.
Culver had not been satisfied. Dealey knew more – or at least, suspected more – than he was saying. The time for secrecy had long passed and, Culver warned, the others in their group might not be as tolerant as he if they suspected Dealey was still withholding information. The older man had protested that there really was nothing more to tell. Except . . . Except . . . yes, there was a certain rumour circulating in various ministerial departments, a rumour that did not rouse much curiosity and therefore had died as swiftly as it had begun.
Dealey had been vague about the story for he honestly did not recall the details, but the pilot had pressed him further, his eyes keen and searching. Something about . . . let me see . . . about a certain kind of rat – several, in fact, of this mutant species – in captivity. It was said that they were under observation in a government research laboratory, possibly – no, probably – being allowed to breed. The only interesting part of this rumour was that the creatures were apparently undergoing some extraordinary genetic transformation. There were two types of mutant vermin, he had explained, the kind resembling the normal Black rat, and another, which was a grotesque. It was the grotesque that the scientists were particularly interested in.
He had been afraid the younger man would strike him then. Why hadn’t he told them all this before? Why had the government been so secretive about the mutants; what was there to fear? Culver had actually drawn his fist back and Dealey had stepped away, his own arm raised for protection. That movement may have saved him from the other man’s wrath, for the rage disappeared from Culver’s eyes and his fist dropped limply to his side. The anger was replaced by disgust.
There had been no further questions. Culver had walked away to sit by a blackened, branchless tree and had not spoken another word until Ellison and the girl returned with firewood.
Dealey was relieved (there was enough hatred directed towards him) that the pilot did not mention their conversation to the others later in the day; he was also somewhat contemptuous. Well, Mr Culver, who was withholding information now? Did he consider they already had enough to worry about? WAS IT NOT IN THE PUBLIC INTEREST? Wit
h privileged knowledge came responsibility; perhaps you’ve learned that today. Dealey had allowed himself a covert smile.
The fire still burned brightly, for the men around it kept the flames fed with more scavenged wood, but the heat did not reach Dealey at his huddled position against the mutilated tree. Beneath the blanket, his eyelids began to close, his chin began to drop to his chest.
Sleep took him in slow stages, for trepidation did battle with fatigue: the night and darkness were something to fear. And so were his dreams.
He was descending a steep, spiral staircase, the steps made of stone, worn and rounded as though many centuries of footsteps had preceded his. He thought the descent would never end and his head was giddy with the constant circle; his legs were becoming numb, his back aching with the constant jarring. One hand reached out for the wall at his side and his fingers recoiled at the slimy wetness of the stonework. The stickiness was yellow-green, the colour of phlegm, and suddenly he was descending the throat of some massive beast and the twisting corridors he finally found himself in were its intestines. Something or someone was waiting for him, somewhere ahead. He did not know if it would be in the creature’s abdomen – or in its bowels. His feet slipped in the viscous fluid that lined the curling tunnel and the odour of rotting dead grew stronger with each step. At one stage hysteria seized him, flicking out from the darkness ahead like a lizard’s tongue, and he turned in its grip as if to flee, but the fleshy corridor behind had shrunk so that there was no way back. He was drawn into the darkness, no longer capable of movement by himself.
They were waiting for him in a vast underground hall, perhaps a cavern, perhaps a crypt, and they grinned, but made no sound as he entered. Isobel was there, wearing the billowing, flowery dress he detested so much, the ridiculous straw hat with its cherries on the brim, and pink gloves that were meant for washing dishes and not the Queen’s garden party, an invitation to which she still waited (yearned) for. His sons were there, even the eldest who should have been overseas, blown to pieces on foreign soil, and their wives and children with them, all grinning, even the baby. There were others that he knew in the crowd – colleagues, his immediate superior at the Ministry, neighbours, and there was the ticket collector at his local railway station, and an archbishop he had once met at a dinner function, although he hadn’t worn his full canonicals then – but most were strangers. Although they all bore one marked similarity. It was easy to spot, no problem at all, and he remarked upon it as they surged forward, surrounding him, grinning, grinning, grinning, revealing their teeth, the two long ones in front, the incisors, drooling wet, glistening sharp; for the heads were those of rats, even the baby’s who turned from suckling its mother’s swollen breast to grin at him, its jaws smeared with the blood that came from its mother’s nipple . . .