Domain

  They were supposed to stay inside the refuge for at least forty-eight hours, and inside the house, preferably the basement, for much longer; two weeks at least, maybe more. The sirens would sound again when it was safe to come out.

  He could risk leaving the cupboard now, he was sure. They must have been inside for at least a week. And the stink from the plastic bucket, dosed with disinfectant and covered with a polythene bag though it was, would make them all ill before much longer.

  The others needn’t be disturbed. He could push the door open just enough to squeeze through with the bucket. The mattress, wedged against the chest-of-drawers, would provide an escape tunnel. He could check on the dog while he was out there.

  Klimpton shrugged himself loose from the covering blanket and groped for the larger torch he kept by his side. His hand closed around Gran’s bony ankle, but she did not stir. Her flesh was cold even though the atmosphere inside the cupboard was warm and clammy. She refused to get into the sleeping bag proclaiming it was too much like sleeping in a straitjacket and that she couldn’t breathe bound up like that. So she used it as a mattress, having a blanket wrapped around her instead.

  He found the torch, then groped for the plastic bucket with its full contents (it was embarrassing for all of them to squat over such a thing in front of others, even though they were family and despite having the lamp turned off – darkness couldn’t cover sounds nor smother smells – but Klimpton would not give in to their protests and allow any of them outside the refuge). The bucket was easy to find in the dark – practically everything was within reach – and he lifted it by its wire handle. His nose wrinkled in disgust.

  Half-turning, Klimpton pushed against the small door to his right, only the pressure from the mattress outside giving some resistance. He leaned his shoulder more firmly into the wood and the gap widened.

  Sian moved restlessly behind him. ‘Ian?’ she said, both weariness and urgency in her voice.

  ‘It’s okay, go back to sleep. Don’t wake the others.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Getting rid of this damn bucket,’ he whispered back.

  ‘Is it safe? Isn’t it too soon to go out there?’

  ‘We’re all right in the cellar. As long as I don’t stay out too long.’

  ‘Please be careful.’

  ‘I will. Sleep.’

  He had to squeeze through the opening sideways, the chest-of-drawers allowing little more than a twelve-inch clearance. The bucket was pushed before him.

  Once he had wriggled himself outside he switched on the torch, waiting for the dazzle in his eyes to fade before venturing further. The mattress, forming a soft, narrow lean-to over him, smelled musty and dank and he dismissed thoughts of what must be crawling around inside it; all those years in the loft must have turned it into a wonderful home for little creeping things. The concoction of smells from bucket and mattress made his stomach want to heave, but then the stench of his own vomit would have made matters even more uncomfortable for them all. Klimpton swallowed hard. The sooner he was out in the comparative openness of the cellar the better.

  He wondered if there would be any cellar left. Perhaps the whole house had fallen in, leaving the basement open to the skies. To the fallout. Stupid. They would surely have known if that were the case. It had been quiet down there. The distant rumbles were just that: distant. And the air was heavy, stale. The old Islington houses were solid, built in a time when mixtures for bricks and mortar were not skimped. Foundations were solid. Walls were steadfast. Probably not too much of London was left up there, but Klimpton knew there was a certain protection in rows of houses, depending on which direction the blast or blasts came from. His own big terraced house was roughly in the middle of a block, so he might have been lucky, unless the front or the back was exposed.

  With a sigh of relief, he was free. He pushed the bucket as far away as possible and rested for a moment, his shoulders clear of the protective corridor. Fearfully, he raised the torch, dreading what he might find, expecting the basement to be in ruins, ceiling caved in, debris everywhere. Perhaps the night sky peering in. He silently cursed himself for doubting his earlier rationalization. The light beam confirmed his reasoning.

  The ceiling, though large chunks of plaster were missing, had withstood the impact. Klimpton quickly swept the beam around the basement and stopped when it fell upon the small window. Rubble had poured through, smashing both glass and frame, creating a slope of debris. At least the opening was completely filled, leaving no room for fallout dust to sneak in.

  Using elbows and knees, he pushed himself clear of the tunnel and stood, his chest heaving with the exertion, surprised that such a small effort had left him so breathless. All the hours of cramped inactivity combined with the stale air they had been forced to breathe had taken their toll.

  The scratching sound again.

  His chest stopped its swelling, his breath only half-drawn in. He swung the torch into a far corner. Nothing there. Then along the base of one wall. An old bicycle of Kevin’s, a three-wheeler. Broken laser-beam space rifle leaning against it. Sian’s ancient washing machine – bin men had refused to take it away. Record player, the old type you could stack up eight discs on, valves dead and dust-furred inside. Another corner. Light bouncing back off an old frameless mirror. Nothing more. The next wall, leading back towards the stairs. Nothing. No junk, no discarded furniture, just . . . just . . . something that shouldn’t be there.

  A shadow. But nothing to cause it.

  He steadied the torch, peered closer, and—

  Scrabbling sounds from above!

  Frantic. Claws against wood.

  The stairs. It came from the top of the stairs.

  And then a whimper. A mewling, begging whimper.

  Klimpton let the half-breath go, then drew in a full slow breath. Cassie had heard him down there. The poor old bitch was trying to get to him. He shone the torch up the stairs and the scratching became more frenzied. She could probably see the light beneath the door. He’d better calm her down before she woke the others.

  Quietly as possible, Klimpton climbed the wooden steps, at once relieved and disappointed that Cassie was still alive. Alive she posed a problem.

  A small, excited yelp as he approached. The clawing increased. As his head drew level with the foot of the door, he leaned forward, one hand resting against the top step, his mouth moving close to the gap under the wood.

  Below him, something moved from the unusual shadow in the wall.

  ‘Cassie,’ he said quietly.

  A small, tired bark came back.

  ‘Good girl, Cassie,’ he soothed. ‘Keep it quiet, there’s a good dog.’

  The whimpering, the pleading, continued.

  ‘I know, Cassie, I know, girl. You’re scared, you want to be with us. But I can’t let you in, not just yet. Understand, I want to, but I can’t.’

  The rejection was painful, and the urge to open the door was almost irresistible. He had to be hard, though, had to be firm. Human beings were more important than pets. The dog would create too many problems down there, the hygiene risk would be too great. Cassie was becoming over-excited.

  Another shape was born from the shadow. It lingered for a moment, a dark form concealed by the surrounding blackness. It moved, stealthily, joining its companion.

  Klimpton wondered if he should open the door a little, just enough to reassure Cassie, perhaps calm her. The dog was losing control, becoming too frenzied.

  ‘Hush, girl. Come on, Cassie, be quiet now.’ His tone was harsher. The sound of the dog’s paws against wood was a continuous rapid friction. ‘Hey, cut it out!’

  Cassie wailed while other things slid from the deep shadow that wasn’t a shadow but a rent in the wall and floor, a fissure caused by the shifting of earth, the movement of concrete. The rupture reached down to the sewers beneath the streets.

  The man on the stairs was unaware of the skulking, bristle-furred beasts, these creeping thin
gs, as they filed swiftly from the opening like smooth black fluid.

  ‘Cassie, just shut up, will you?’ Klimpton thumped at the door with the flat of his hand, but the dog yelped even more, all the weakness gone from her cries. Soon she began to growl and her master wondered if the ordeal had not driven her mad.

  Sian’s muffled voice came from below: ‘Ian, what’s going on up there? You’ve woken all of us.’

  ‘Dad, is that Cassie?’ came Kevin’s voice. ‘Please let her in, please bring her down.’

  ‘You know we can’t. Just go back to sleep.’

  Klimpton knew the boy would now be crying in the arms of his mother or his gran. Bloody dog! As if they didn’t have enough to worry about.

  He pulled back as something solid thumped against the door, rattling the wood in its frame. Good Lord, the dog was throwing itself against the door in its desperation. He should have done something about the animal before they came down there. Should have cut its throat (oh no, he couldn’t see himself doing that) or locked it in a cupboard. But there had been no time, no time to think, no time to act sensibly.

  Thump.

  ‘Stop it!’ Klimpton shouted, banging his fist against the wood. ‘You stupid bloody pest.’

  One of the night creatures stood poised at the foot of the stairs, its yellow eyes glinting, a reflection from the torch beam. Two long-clawed feet rested against the bottom step and its back was hunched, giving it an arched appearance. It studied the man for long moments, until its snout twitched, sniffing the air. It moved away from the step and sniffed its way around the plastic bucket, attracted by the aroma of excrement and urine. The sounds of movement close by diverted its attention.

  Its night-seeing eyes distinguished the black tunnel from the lesser denseness of the cellar. Different odours drifted from there. The animal approached in a small scurrying movement, poking its long snout into the opening. Further sounds excited the creature, for they were living noises. And instinctively it was aware that the animals who made the sounds were weak. Its jaws opened to reveal long, sharp teeth that dripped with wetness.

  The rat entered the tunnel, its body, with its wide powerful haunches and hunched back, fitting comfortably. One of its companions followed. Then another.

  The pink, scaly tail of the last rat slithered snake-like through the dust of the cellar floor before disappearing into the inner blackness.

  Above, Cassie was barking frantically, running away from the door, then returning with a crashing thump, throwing herself so hard at the wood that Klimpton felt sure she would burst through. He was frightened by her actions, fearing that if she did break into the cellar, she would run amok. Her screeching bark was near-demented, and Klimpton shuddered to think of the effects of a bite from a mad dog.

  He staggered back at the force of the next throw, grabbing the handrail to keep his balance. How the hell could he pacify her, how could he soothe her? How could he make her damn-well stop? Wasn’t their nightmare enough?

  A scream. From below.

  Sian!

  Kevin!

  He turned on the stairs and the torch beam swung downwards.

  Klimpton almost collapsed. And if he had, he would have fallen among them.

  For the cellar was alive with thick, furry bodies, a black carpet of moving shapes, squirming, leaping over each other’s backs, never still, long pointed noses raised here and there to sniff the air, eyes caught in the glare of the torch, glinting yellow like those of cats, a terrible mass of writhing vermin, so big, so huge, like nothing he’d ever seen before, monsters, hideous . . .

  ‘Nooooo!’ he cried when his family’s screams broke through his shock. Looking over the handrail he saw the creatures disappearing into the mattress tunnel to the shelter. His family was screaming beneath his feet.

  Klimpton ran down the steps, leaping the last few, landing among the rats, stumbling, falling to his knees. He lashed out with the torch and the creatures scurried away. He was up, kicking out, screaming at them, tearing at the chest-of drawers, pulling it aside, ignoring the teeth that sank into his calf muscles. He pulled at the mattress and the cupboard door swung away with it.

  Nothing made sense in the torchlight. All he could see was a jumble of struggling shapes, something white here and there, something white but smeared with dark red, and the red was his family’s blood.

  A weight thudded against his back, but he did not feel the razor teeth slash his skin, tearing flesh away with his shirt material in a large, loose flap. He did not feel the mouth that tightened around his thigh, the long incisors seeking the warm liquid within. He did not feel the claws that raked the back of his legs, nor the snapping jaws that gained purchase between them.

  He only felt the pain of his wife, his son, his mother.

  Clawed feet scurried up his back, reaching his shoulders, teeth finding a hold on his neck, knocking him forward so that he fell into the opening to join his family in their blood-drenched refuge.

  At the top of the stairs, the door rocked against its frame as Cassie threw herself against it, the blows becoming more rapid, more forceful, the wood rattling against its frame, the air filled with yelps and screams and squealing.

  As the screams eventually faded, so the blows became weaker. And when the sounds in the cellar were only feeding noises, the dog’s barks became a wailing moan. And when the blows stopped and the door was still, all that could be heard was a muffled, whimpering sound.

  And from below, a rapacious gnawing.

  8

  ‘How is he?’

  Dr Reynolds, whose eyes had been cast downwards in thought as she closed the sick-bay door behind her, looked up in surprise. She smiled at the girl and Kate saw the tiredness behind the smile. And the anxiety.

  Clare Reynolds leaned back against the door, hands tucked into her tunic pockets, a familiar gesture. ‘He’ll pull through,’ she answered, and Kate realized the anxiety was for more than just Culver; it was for all of them.

  ‘The radiation penetration was minor – less than a hundred rads, I’d say.’ The doctor took out a cigarette pack and offered it towards Kate. ‘Do you smoke? I haven’t noticed.’

  Kate shook her head.

  ‘Sensible.’ Dr Reynolds lit her cigarette with a slim lighter. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, face towards the concrete ceiling. The gesture of removing the cigarette and exhaling a thin stream of blue smoke was almost elegant. Her eyes opened once more.

  ‘Thanks for helping out over the past few days.’

  ‘It kept me busy, and that helped me.’

  ‘That seems to be a problem in this place: very little to do for most of the staff. For some it induces apathy, for others, discontent. They need something other than death and destruction to keep their minds occupied.’

  ‘Farraday’s tried to keep them busy.’

  ‘Any luck with communications?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. It could be that we’re all that’s left.’

  Dr Reynolds studied the girl thoughtfully. She looked better than when she had first arrived, but the fear was still there, that barely-disguised brittleness, a reed that could snap at any moment rather than bend. Her hair was clean, a lively yellow, her eyes softer now, but still uneasy. The torn blouse had been replaced by a man’s shirt, hanging loose over her skirt. On one side, high on her chest, a film badge was pinned, a dosimeter that everyone in the shelter had been instructed to wear; at the end of each week, these were to be analysed by the small radiological department housed in the underground complex. Dr Reynolds could not quite understand the need, for there were enough ionization instruments strategically placed around the shelter to give full warning of any radiation leakage, but she assumed they were used for psychological effect, a reassurance to the wearer. What reassurance should they begin to become cloudy?

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’ she asked. ‘I’m desperate for one. It’d give us a chance to talk.’

  Kate nodded and Dr Reynolds pushed herself away f
rom the door. They headed towards the dining area.

  ‘Will Steve be all right?’ Kate asked again, not satisfied with the doctor’s previous answer.

  An engineer stood aside to allow them room to pass along the narrow corridor and Dr Reynolds nodded her thanks, smiling briefly. ‘Oh, yes, I think he’ll be fine. Although the radiation dose was comparatively minor – the worst physical effect apart from the nausea and dizziness was to render him sterile for a day or two, and I’m sure that didn’t bother him in his condition – I’m afraid it considerably lowered his resistance to infection from the rat bite. Fortunately, the powers that be thoughtfully provided an antidote to the disease this particular beast—’

  Kate had stopped. ‘Disease?’

  The doctor took her arm and kept her walking.

  ‘Some years ago, this breed of rodent – a mutation, as I understand it – infected anyone it bit with an extreme form of Leptospirosis. A cure was found soon enough, and it was thought that the beggars had eventually lost this extra weapon in their nasty little arsenal. It seems the medical authorities were never quite sure, though, so they decided to play it safe should the worst ever happen. I found our life-saver among the medical supplies.’

  ‘Then why wasn’t I infected? And Alex Dealey?’

  Dr Reynolds shrugged. ‘You weren’t bitten – at least not deeply. You suffered scratches, mostly. But I injected you and Culver after I put you out the other day. I wasn’t taking any chances. And Dealey wasn’t touched by them.’

  ‘But he was ill.’

  ‘Yes, but only from radiation sickness. Both he and Culver received roughly the same amount. Not enough to be lethal, but enough to knock them off their feet for a day or two. As you know, Dealey has recovered fully for the moment.’

  ‘You mean it won’t last?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be okay – they both will. But the sickness is likely to recur within the next couple of weeks. It won’t last long, though, not with the small dosage they’ve received.’

  The thrum of the power generator reached their ears and was somehow comforting, an indication that technological civilization had not broken down totally. They passed the ventilation plant and Dr Reynolds gave a small wave to a group of engineers. Only one, a stocky blond man, returned the wave.