Arisen, Book Nine - Cataclysm (21 page)

Then they’d been forced to walk halfway to London. And when they got there, nothing had been done for them. No real provisions, no housing, no help. But Hackworth wasn’t wasting time with umbrage or self-pity. No, he just took the very obvious lesson from it:

They were on their own. Totally.

And always had it been thus. Early on, they learned that to survive they had to look out for one another. No one else was going to do it. And, with the world falling apart around them, they couldn’t afford the time, expense, or danger of looking out for anyone else. Maybe they had been cut off from the rest of humanity for so long that it had become an ingrained habit – even before the outside world started letting them down.

Maybe it had to be this way.

And as Hackworth listened to the guards at the gate deny them sanctuary and consign them to their fate out in the vortex of chaos that was descending… and he heard the weeping of Amarie and the cries of her daughter… and he winced at the loud honking of the truck trying to come through behind them… and, finally, heard and felt the huge explosion inside the gates of what was supposed to be the safest place in Britain… with all that, he now knew two things.

One, they had to get the hell out of London.

And, two, they damned well weren’t going to do it on foot this time.

“Follow me,” he said to Colley, who did so without hesitation.

The rest of the Tunnelers seemed to be on the same wavelength, without Hackworth even having to tell them what he had in mind. In a few seconds of minor but inspired violence, they took control of the truck – as well as the driver and another soldier in the passenger seat. Less than a minute later, the Tunnelers had all piled into the back, and the vehicle was rumbling onto the verge and turning around.

Colley was in the big cargo area in back minding the guard. Hackworth sat up in front in the passenger seat, pointing the driver’s own side arm at his ribcage.

“Listen,” the driver said. “This is not going to end well for you.”

“I don’t think it’s going to end well for anybody,” Hackworth said. And he meant it. With recent events, he had an even dimmer view of London’s survival prospects than he’d had that morning, watching heavily armed looters rampaging through government and military facilities in Covent Garden. London felt like a trap to him, one hemmed in by very high walls, and with an absurdly high population density.

It was like a powder keg waiting for a match. And he didn’t intend for them to be there when it went up. “Just drive,” Hackworth said.

“Where am I going?”

“North. The north gate in the Wall. Out of here.”

“They’ll never let you through.”

“Maybe not.” Hackworth tapped the barrel of the pistol on the picture ID clipped to the driver’s shirt pocket. “But you’re another story.”

Colley, who had just stuck his head into the front, now whispered to Hackworth. “The woman did say they shut the gates – for good. No one in or out.”

Hackworth shook his head. “They’ll let us out. One way or another. We’ve come too far. And we are
not
going to go down with London. Not after all this. I won’t let us.”

Colley nodded and returned to the back. That was good enough for him. Hackworth had never failed them yet. And Colley for one was prepared to follow him – even to the bitter end.

They all were.

* * *

In the dark of the rear cargo area, bouncing and rumbling on ill-maintained roads, Siobhan, one of the only other surviving women in the group, cradled Amarie’s head and tried to console her. On the opposite side was Alderney, the aging shopkeeper, who had long made it his business to look after Amarie. It had given him a sense of purpose during the long months in the darkness of the tunnel. But now he felt totally inadequate to the task. All he could think to do was pat her knee and mutter “There, there…”

But she was inconsolable – unable even to stop sobbing, her tortured breaths heaving in and out like she was drowning. Every one of the Tunnelers knew what that little girl meant to her – everything. That she’d had to give her up to keep her safe was obviously the most grievous pain she’d ever known.

And what was worse: she had no idea when she was going to see her again.

Watching the pathos of this scene in solemn silence, Colley just shook his head. He took a look around the group, to make sure everyone was okay. Most were sitting on or around the big wooden crates that took up much of the space back there. It occurred to him that he ought to shove them out. These people needed more room – and deserved it.

But something made him hesitate.

He stood up from the one he’d sat down on, produced his axe, and levered up the nailed-down top of the crate. And he whistled when he saw what was inside – row after row of assault rifles, British Army SA-80s, gleaming and new in wood shavings, facing in alternating directions. Also, dozens of empty thirty-round magazines, and fifty-round boxes of ammunition – hundreds of them.

There were three crates of that size. He levered open one of the smaller ones and found pistols. He read the lettering on the side – they were Glock 17 Gen 4s in 9x19mm. There were also seventeen-round magazines for them, and much smaller fifty-round boxes of 9mm bullets, also hundreds of them. He lifted one of the pistols out and found it had a rough, pebbly-textured grip.

“Whoah,” Colley said aloud, feeling the light weight and reassuring solidity of the polymer-framed pistol. Maybe these shouldn’t go out the back after all.

Also now he had a job – and quickly recruited a few of the steadier men of the group to assist him – in loading magazines. Few of the Tunnelers really knew how to use these weapons. But the time might soon come when they’d have no choice but to use them, expertise or no.

And Colley knew enough to know this: they’d be a lot more useful loaded.

* * *

Hackworth was basically winging the navigation, and the driver wasn’t doing much to help him. He was actively thwarting him, actually, Hackworth decided. Maybe he figured there was little chance of the pudgy middle-aged man actually using the pistol on another living person.

They’d gotten out of Wandsworth Common with little bother, and were now heading northwest on York Road. The trouble was going to be getting across the River Thames. Hackworth simply didn’t know which bridges were open, which had security checkpoints, and which were totally off-limits due to leading into the Government Security Zone…

He was guessing maybe Vauxhall Bridge would be okay – but as they reached the roundabout that led to the foot of the bridge, they saw a multi-car crash piled up in one lane and most of the shoulder, blocking the exit they needed. There were lots of police on scene, on foot and in vehicles – dealing with the general chaos as much as the disabled vehicles and injured drivers and passengers.

And the Tunnelers did
not
want to attract the attention of the police.

“Left, left!” Hackworth shouted at the driver, keeping his pistol low and out of view… but it was too late, and they were already heading up the road that bordered the south bank of the river. The next bridge across would be Lambeth Bridge – and the one after was Westminster Bridge. They’d already seen the latter had a giant wall and heavy security at its northern end – and Hackworth didn’t much like their odds at the one before it.

The driver took them past it.

But as they approached the next roundabout, Hackworth said, “Keep going north – we’ll cross further along, well clear of Whitehall.” The last thing they needed was soldiers at government checkpoints sniffing around.

The driver nodded, swung them onto the roundabout – a little fast maybe – but then he kept them leaning into their turn, passing the north exit.

“No!” Hackworth shouted, grabbing at the wheel. But it was too late.

And then he took them out of their orbit – right onto Westminster Bridge.

“Damn you,” Hackworth said. Once again he’d been too slow. Also, he hadn’t really wanted to risk a crash by battling over the steering wheel. Though a crash probably would have suited the driver just fine. His captivity would be over, as would this hijacking.

And the Tunnelers would be well and truly screwed.

But within seconds they were already halfway across Westminster Bridge, and well within sight of the security station in the giant wall at its end. If they stopped in the middle of the bridge and turned around, it would be too suspicious. If they lost their nerve, they were done for.

They were in it now. One way or another.

Hackworth sucked in a couple of breaths, steeling himself for what he had to do… and then he jammed the pistol into the driver’s ribs – hard. This seemed to surprise the man. Hackworth surprised himself. He leaned in so his lips were inches from the man’s ear, and the soldier would feel his breath on them. He spoke softly, and in a way that was genuinely menacing.

“I’m going to crouch down behind your seat,” he said. “And I’m going to point this gun at your spine. If you betray us… you will never walk again.”

The driver stole a glance over at the older man, and fear flashed across his face. But then he hardened. “I don’t believe you’d do it.”

Hackworth’s eyes flashed bloody murder. “Do I look like a man with anything to lose? If this goes south, we’re going to have to shoot our way out. And I swear the first bullet is for you.”

The driver swallowed dryly. And he began to slow. They were nearly at the checkpoint. Hackworth smoothly withdrew, wedging himself into the narrow area behind the driver’s seat. And he stuck the muzzle of the gun into the seat back – hard enough so the driver would feel it in his spine.

Now all he could do was wait, and pray.

And marvel at what it seemed he was now capable of.

Maybe anyone was capable of such viciousness – when given no choice.

Make It Right

JFK - Bridge

The bridge of the
Kennedy
was a place of some peace again – after Dr. Park had finally decamped, looking shame-faced, and the agitated British major at CentCom had stopped yelling at him on the radio. Commander Abrams was just starting to once again enjoy the relaxation of being at anchor and not having anything blowing up or going horribly wrong, at least for the moment.

“Dr. Park asking to speak with you again, sir.”

Dammit.

Abrams’s first inclination was to decline this request, because he didn’t have time for it. But weirdly – uniquely, in fact, in his whole command of the
JFK
so far – he actually did have time for it. With both the shore mission and flight ops being rodeo’d by others, for once Abrams felt like he could breathe.

“Bring him back in.”

This time the compact scientist stepped up with Sarah Cameron in tow – his handler, enabler, and personal protection detail. As the pair reached Abrams’s station, she looked alert and all business – though the scientist himself looked a little frazzled, like he’d been putting the hammer down, working.

“Dr. Park,” Abrams said nodding. “Ms. Cameron.” He considered taking the pair to the briefing room upstairs. But he didn’t really want to hand over command of the bridge. And, frankly, he didn’t want to get up from his seat. “What’s up?”

Park nodded, and touched the corner of his eyeglasses. “Commander. I screwed up. I know that. I should have realized we could complete the vaccine faster, doing critical work before we got to London, if we had a new DNA sequencer to replace the one that went over the side. I should have made that request and got it in motion earlier – before they sent the new plane. It was my error. A bad one.”

Abrams just nodded. He felt for the man – everyone screwed up, especially in the topsy-turvy environment they all had to work in. Then again, Park’s job was saving the world, so he didn’t feel real inclined to pat him on the head and tell him it was okay and he’d get it right next time.

“But I know how to fix this. I can make it right.”

That piqued Abrams’s attention. “Go on.”

Park nodded and began. “There were an awful lot of DNA sequencers on this planet at the time of the fall. They were running round the clock sequencing the genomes of everything from local human populations, to thousands of species of animals and plants, to the gut bacteria, and tens of trillions of other bacteria, that make up the microbiome for each of us. The cost of these things went through the floor in the years after the human genome was first sequenced in 2001. So everyone started getting in the game.”

“You’re saying we could go get one. A DNA sequencer.”

“Yes. I’ve been staring at the map of the region and torturing my memory.”

“Tougher without Google Maps, right?”

Park shrugged. “Or the Internet, period. We never appreciated how useful it was to be able to look up anything – until it was gone.” He paused and looked thoughtful. “You know, someday, when all this is over, someone is going to have to go out to San Francisco, raid Google or the Internet Archive, and retrieve a snapshot of the whole thing. A mission to recover all human knowledge. And then turn the Internet back on.”

Abrams squinted. It was a very interesting thought – and one that had no relevance whatsoever to their current mission. And what things would be like “when all this is over” had not nearly been decided yet. He steered Park back on to topic. “But today we live like our fathers did. What’d you come up with?”

“Saudi Arabia. The Saudi Human Genome Project.”

“Seriously?”

Park nodded again. “Yes. They were based in Jizan – down at the very bottom of the country. Almost at the bottom of the Arabian Peninsula
.
It’s less than five hundred miles from where we’re anchored right now.”

The two of them locked eyes.

Park said: “Let me go there and get what we need. With a shore team.”

Abrams shook his head. “Okay. First of all, as you ought to know, you’re not going anywhere. Not even below decks on this ship without an armed escort. Definitely not onto a shore teeming with dead.”

Park nodded. “Okay, I can under—”