Coldbrook (Hammer) (24 page)

‘Are you the only ones still fully human?’ Holly asked, barely able to speak because the answer might be so awful.

‘There are isolated islands of survivors,’ Moira said. ‘A few communities here and there. Wanderers. The older ones tell us what it was like before, and there are books.’

‘So we
do
mourn what should have been,’ Paloma said, as if to know that was important.

‘I’ll tell you the rest while we walk,’ Drake said.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Down into Coldbrook. You don’t think we spend our lives living in caves, do you?’ He smiled that confident smile again, and Holly had to remind herself that she was the stranger here, she was the visitor.

Gaia was another world, and yet it was very much like the Earth that Holly knew. They spoke English here, and she craved to know the extent of the similarities. Had they known Mozart and Metallica, Shakespeare and Stephen King? Was there Britain and Australia, or had their history evolved away from her world’s long enough ago for such things to be vastly different?

Everything Jonah had believed was true, and he didn’t yet know. He might even have died without knowing.

As they left the small room and headed along a corridor lit by oil lamps, Drake started talking.

‘There’s a whole history to tell you. I’m keen to know of the differences between our worlds, when our Earth
and yours . . . parted ways. That should be easy to pin down date-wise, but the actual cause . . .’ He shook his head, but when she glanced at him Holly saw an excitement that reminded her so much of Jonah. ‘But first and for your own safety, you need to know about the world you’ve come to. Our Earth is a dead world. It died forty years ago with the Fury plague, in nineteen seventy-two. It spread quickly. Spanned the globe. And less than six weeks later, all was lost.’

‘Forty years!’ Holly gasped. ‘None of you can be—’

‘There are a few here old enough to remember,’ Paloma said from where she and Moira followed behind. ‘Though most of them try to forget.’

‘So what are you still doing down here?’ Holly asked.

‘Same as you. What else is Coldbrook
ever
for?’

‘What do you mean?’

But Drake walked on ahead in silence.
He keeps thinking he’s said too much
, Holly thought.

The corridor was long, curving down to the right, and the walls were made of smooth blockwork. There was a wire tray just below the ceiling that contained a spaghetti of wires of all colours.

‘You still have electricity?’

‘Only for what’s important.’

‘What happened after the plague?’ Holly asked, because she sensed that was all he felt happy talking about for now. And besides, knowledge of the plague on
this side of the breach could perhaps help her when she returned to her own world.

If
I return
. The idea was harsh, but it had to be considered. These people were being pleasant enough for now, if cautious. But if they wanted to keep her here for some reason, there was no telling how forceful they might become.

‘With few left alive to spread the plague, the furies’ numbers went down. They ground to a halt slowly, faded, and now it’s rare for them to hunt for new victims. If you go too close, though, and they smell you . . . then they rise.’

‘They’re still alive after so long?’

‘Nowhere near alive. But though their bodies wither, their heads remain full of whatever drives them.’

‘And you don’t know what that is?’

Drake didn’t answer, but carried on talking as if he had not heard Holly’s question. ‘The surviving communities of humans live in the hills, the deserts, at the icy poles, on islands. Wherever the furies aren’t too prevalent.’

‘There seem to be some around here,’ Holly said.

‘Yes,’ Drake agreed. ‘But we’re special. Most people are living their days as best they can, others have embarked upon . . .’ He motioned her and the others through a door into a wide lobby area.

‘Upon what?’

‘There are extermination squads in Italy,’ Paloma said.

‘Well, that’s good!’ Holly said. ‘Surely wiping out the furies is best for everyone?’

‘They’re not exterminating furies,’ Moira said.

‘Oh.’

‘This way,’ Drake said, nodding towards a door set in the lobby’s far wall. There were more oil lamps here, and the ceiling had collapsed in one corner, letting in a landslide of heavy rock and soil.

‘So you never made a breach?’ Holly asked. And if that were true – and they had never found their way into the multiverse – then the Fury plague must have originated in this world somewhere. Another thought that led to a thousand more questions.

‘We did,’ Drake said. ‘But not like you. And that’s what I have to show you. It’ll answer so much more, but it won’t be pleasant.’

Paloma produced a small cloth pouch from her pocket and waved it towards Holly. ‘I have this if it all becomes too much.’

‘What is that?’

‘It’ll calm you.’

‘No, thank you,’ Holly said. She had no idea what they were going to show her but Paloma’s offer of some herbal drug troubled her.

‘I’ll take her from here,’ Drake said.

Paloma nodded and turned away, but Moira shifted from foot to foot.

‘Can I not stay? I took down the fury that nearly killed her. And she’s
special
.’

Drake seemed uncertain, but Holly nodded.

‘I don’t mind,’ she said. She hoped that Moira might be a little more open, if she had the chance to talk with her alone. The source of the plague was a mystery still, and the Inquisitor that Drake had mentioned, and . . .

And a million other things
, she thought.
Jonah should have been here, not me
. She knew that he and Drake would have had so much to talk about.

‘One thing,’ Holly asked. ‘Are you the lead scientist in Coldbrook?’

‘I’m the one they look up to.’

‘They?’

‘There are about forty of us here, adults and a few children. Let me show you what I’m taking you to and then after that we can talk some more. But it will clear up questions that I really don’t feel qualified to answer.’

‘Your accent,’ she said.

‘My father came from Wales.’

She gasped. ‘Jonah Jones?’

Drake stared at her. ‘His name was Richard Slater. His middle name was Jonah.’

Holly frowned, trying to make sense of what this might mean, if anything. Drake’s similarity to Jonah had unnerved her. But perhaps it meant nothing.

‘There’s too much to understand,’ he said softly,
squeezing her arm. She realised it was the first time he’d touched her, and she suddenly felt safer than she had before, more protected. There were still so many unknowns. This . . .’ He opened the door and indicated the short corridor beyond, a stairwell at its end. ‘This will help you begin to understand.’

Drake went first and Holly followed, with Moira behind her. They descended the staircase and passed through a series of doors. The bland interiors reminded her of a gloomy version of the Coldbrook she had known for so long. That thought brought no comfort. As Drake opened a door set in a smooth concrete-walled corridor, she saw what he wanted her to see.

But it was only as the mass of zombies came at her that real understanding began.

He follows Charlotte through downtown Boston, and from the beginning he knows that this dream is different. His troubled, dead sister arrives at their parents’ house and knocks at the door, and Vic senses the change as the door swings open. His mother is there with the family heirloom grasped in her grey hands, one of her eyes missing, and a swathe of her scalp ripped off. Charlotte thanks her, and their mother closes the door on her own blank expression.

The dream progresses. Vic tries to shout out to these
dead fools who give gifts that will guarantee the death of his sister. But, as ever, he has no voice.

He can only follow.

Vic knows what is coming, and that just makes it more terrible. At last she reaches the large house. The toys in the garden are rusted now, the flower beds overgrown.

Charlotte rings the bell.

Lucy answers the door. ‘Charlotte! You’re looking well. Death becomes—’

And Charlotte goes at her, dead fingers clasping, ragged teeth biting, and as Lucy giggles at the mess of her own face Vic hears his daughter’s singing from inside the house.

Vic woke up with a gasp and everything came back to him at once. Lucy was staring at him, her head pressed into the pillow. There was a tear nestled on the bridge of her nose, and as he watched it ran down across her face.

‘She’s dreaming,’ Lucy said, and Vic heard his daughter mumbling to herself. He could not discern the words, but Olivia’s voice was unhappy. She was not crying but pleading.

‘She’ll be okay,’ Vic said. Such a hollow platitude.

‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘Didn’t want to wake you.’ Vic looked at his watch and rubbed his hands across his face. ‘Four hours. I only wanted to crash out for an hour.’

‘What happened with Marc?’

‘We spoke to Jonah.’

‘He’s okay?’

Vic frowned. ‘I think so. Alive, at least. But . . .’

‘He’s an old man.’

‘Only in years.’ Vic smiled.

‘And no news from Holly?’

Holly
, Vic thought, and blinked at a sudden intense memory of loving her in the shower. ‘Nothing yet,’ he said.

‘Hey.’ Lucy touched his cheek and turned him to face her. ‘We’re here, and we’re all okay together. That’s good enough for now.’

He kissed her and held her against his body.

‘You should go back to Marc,’ she said. ‘Lots to do.’ She sat up and ran her fingers through her hair. Olivia had settled, breathing softly in the cot at the foot of their own bed. The room was barely big enough for the three of them.

‘What’re you going to do?’ he asked, and Lucy nodded at the laptop on the table beside the bed.

‘Catch up. Try and call my folks. Email them, IM, Facebook.’ Her voice was filled with dread, and Vic thought he should stay. But seeing the disaster together could not lessen its impact.

‘Okay. Not as if there’s far to look if you want me.’

Lucy smiled up at him as he dressed, and he bent down to kiss her again. Her breath was stale and her shoulders tense.

‘Be back soon,’ she said, and Vic nodded.

Marc was in his communications room, talking with another tall man. The room was small, square, and each wall was lined with benching. There were laptops and telephones, and on one wall a blank screen promised much. There were also radios and satellite communication equipment. It was as basic as Vic had already come to expect of the bunker – the walls were bare, the furniture functional – but the equipment was top drawer. Cigarette smoke hazed the air.

‘Vic,’ Marc said as soon as he entered. ‘I was going to wake you. There’s bad news, and fucking terrible news. Which do you want first?’

Vic shook his head. How could he answer that?

‘Well, we’ve lost touch with Jonah.’

‘No,’ Vic said. He glanced from Marc to the other man, and felt his stomach drop. ‘Nothing at all?’

‘Email’s out, satphone gets nothing. He’s no longer online.’

‘Could be a power fault in Coldbrook,’ Vic said.

‘With luck that’s all it is,’ Marc agreed. The alternative was too grim to voice.

‘So if that has happened, what’re his chances?’ the other man said. Vic stared at him, then glanced at Marc.

‘Vic, meet my partner Gary Volk.’

‘You’re English?’ Vic asked.

‘Only until they ask me to pay my taxes,’ Gary said.

‘Jonah will be cut off down there,’ Vic said. ‘If the main power’s gone, backup should kick in. But there’s no saying what damage has been done to Coldbrook. He’ll have plenty of air and supplies, and there are torch stocks in every room. But without power he won’t be able to get out. Ever.’

‘But the core?’ Marc asked.

‘Balanced, and self-sustaining. It doesn’t need any outside power source.’

‘So why not run Coldbrook from the core?’ Gary asked.

‘Because you don’t use antimatter to run your food blender,’ Vic said.

Gary raised his eyebrows, then smiled. ‘Forgive me. I’m just a musician.’ His smile was disarming, his eyes filled with a constant glimmer.

‘Gary owns the chopper that you saw,’ Marc said.

Vic stepped forward and held out his hand. Gary shook it without hesitation and Vic was relieved. He was sure that Marc must have told him what he’d done.

‘So what’s been happening?’ Vic asked.

‘You missed the President’s address,’ Marc said. He nodded at an open laptop on the benching. Its screen saver was a butterfly shedding sparkling dust as it flapped its wings. It was simply beautiful.

‘And what a joke that was,’ Gary said.

‘Want to see it?’ Marc asked.

Vic blinked, uncertain, because yes, he did. Gary
snorted, and Marc tapped a few keys. When the clip started, he moved the slider along until it was a couple of minutes in.

‘This is the interesting bit,’ Marc said, and he hit play.

The President flickered as the clip began, his face shimmering, and Vic remembered the hope they had all felt when he had taken office, and the belief that he might alter their broken country. Now he had something else to say. And though he clung to hope, Vic could see shadows in the man’s eyes.

‘. . . to combat the spread of the infection, while our scientists strive to understand it and create a means of treating it. And I would say to the press and the media that they are
not
helping matters with sensationalised reports, and that they could provide a valuable service to the country by helping, rather than criticising and hindering, official efforts to take control of the situation. They can begin helping by broadcasting this important announcement, and making sure it is spread as far as possible: There is now an immunity register published online, and I would urge anyone who suspects that they, or anyone they know, are immune from the infection to enter their details in the register. Links to the register can be found on the front pages of YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, other social networking sites, and all major search engines and email providers.’ He took a pause, and just for a moment – perhaps the space of a blink, but Vic
knew he had not imagined it – the President’s lip quivered. But he was too strong to reveal his tears. ‘This is
not
a plague of zombies,’ he said. ‘It is a terrible disease, and soon we shall find a cure. Thank you.’ The President turned to leave, and as the assembled journalists started shouting Marc cancelled the clip.