Crawlers (7 page)

‘Don't call her a bitch!' put in Lauren.

‘What?' Josh blinked. ‘I didn't! I said “bitch”, as in “to bitch”, verb, meaning “complain and whine and drone on about everything”. What are you, stupid?'

‘Stop calling us stupid!' shrieked Samantha.

‘Shut up a second, all of you!' yelled Jasmine. ‘You,' she added, pointing at Hugo, who was standing in the doorway, looking startled in the sudden silence. ‘What is it now?'

‘It's . . . one of the screens,' stammered Hugo, bewildered. ‘The camera that covers the main entrance to the street. Some police are trying to get in!'

‘Well, about bloody time.' Samantha sniffed. ‘Out of my way, I want to see what's going on.'

Elbowing Josh aside, she strode past him and Hugo. Josh turned, as if about to say something, but his way was blocked by Lauren, who now stood between him and the monitor-room door, arms crossed, face set, like a sneering female bouncer.

‘For God's sake,' said Josh, a third time.

But Jasmine had dodged behind him too. Now she, Hugo and Samantha were all in front of the monitors.

The first thing Jasmine noticed was that most of the screens were empty. Or rather, they continued to show the parts of the
Barbican covered by their cameras. But apart from the eerily silent adults outside their own door, no other people could be seen except on the monitor Hugo was indicating.

‘But . . . there's only two of them!' said Samantha after a moment, annoyed.

It was true. The view of the Barbican's main glass entrance doors was grainy, bluish, a little unfocused, but the two police officers currently trying to get in appeared clearly enough: one man, one woman, dressed in regular uniform – ordinary street police.

‘Why's there only two?' said Samantha.

‘Because they don't know what's happening,' said Jasmine, realizing. ‘They probably only came because someone heard the alarm. You said yourself: mobiles don't work here. And for all we know, we could be the only people in the building who haven't been bitten. Maybe no one outside has any idea what's really going on.'

‘But it must seem a bit weird that the doors are locked . . . right?' asked Hugo. Then: ‘Look, one of them's going for his radio.'

While the female officer looked for a doorbell or buzzer, the male one lifted his lapel radio to his lips. But Jasmine knew he would only be saying something like ‘We're checking it out.'

Suddenly there was movement on another of the monitors. Six Barbican staff – two men and four women – were now
walking up the wide white passage that led to the entrance.

‘Where did they come from?' asked Samantha, pointing.

‘Shhhhh,' said Jasmine. ‘Watch.'

Onscreen, the six staff members approached the glass doors. While one, a woman in a smart knee-length skirt and fitted jacket, made ‘just a moment' gestures, the others set to work, reaching up and down, busying themselves with the locks at the tops and bottoms of the heavy glass panels. Finally one of them held the door open, and the smart lady beckoned the two police officers inside.

‘Oh no . . .' said Jasmine.

The next bit happened very fast. As soon as the two officers were inside, the rest of the welcoming committee dropped their pretence with the locks. Two of them produced what they'd been hiding behind their backs and – as the others blocked the door – strode up to the unsuspecting officers while they were talking to the smart lady. They didn't stand a chance: before they could even react it was over. The two police went rigid then fell to the floor, with crawlers on the backs of their necks.

‘What?' asked Josh as Samantha and Jasmine came out of the monitor room. ‘What happened?'

‘I . . . don't know,' said Samantha. Her voice sounded small and strange after all her bluster from before. ‘There were two police officers. Some people let them in, and . . .' She paused and looked wildly at Jasmine. ‘That can't be all, right? Those can't be the only ones coming to help us. Everybody knows we're stuck in here! Any second now they're going to come and . . . and . . .'

Lauren looked uncertain for a moment, then her arm went around Samantha's shoulders. She took her over to a chair and sat her down.

Everyone else looked at Jasmine.

She took another deep breath. ‘All right, everybody,' she said, ‘I'm going to tell you something. You're not going to like it, so I'll tell it to you straight: I don't think anyone's coming to help us. For now, we're on our own.'

There was a moment of silence, then a rising hubbub of voices.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Of course they're coming to help us – why wouldn't they?'

‘When are we going to get out of here?'

Jasmine waited for a chance to continue. She didn't get it. Until—

‘
Quiet!
' roared Hugo from behind her.
Then
there was silence.

‘Er, thank you,' said Jasmine.

Hugo, who was standing in the doorway, didn't acknowledge the thanks; he looked at Jasmine, just like everyone else was doing – again. She had to swallow before starting to explain.

‘The two police who came to the door . . .' she began. ‘Well, I think they just happened to be passing by. They had no idea. The fact is, right now I don't think anyone outside knows that any of this is going on.'

‘But . . . we'll be missed,' said Josh.

‘So will all those other people,' said Robert.

‘Not for a while yet, though,' Ben put in bleakly. ‘We're all supposed to be at the theatre, remember? The play wasn't even due to finish till after ten.'

‘After that, though,' said Jasmine, wanting to soften the blow, keep people's spirits up, ‘you're right: people are going to wonder where we are. Calls will get made. Someone will come and investigate. You obviously can't keep something like this a secret for ever. Besides, the police radioed in to say they were checking the doors. But' – she hesitated – ‘that was before they . . .'

‘Before they what?' asked Ben.

‘The crawlers got them,' said Samantha dully.

‘
What?
' said Lauren.

‘It's true,' said Jasmine. ‘Some Barbican staff, ones who'd
been bitten, tricked them into coming in. Then, while their backs were turned, they—'

‘Oh God!' said Lauren, taking her arm off Samantha's shoulder. ‘But if they got the
police
, then what chance have we got?' She blinked, and her bottom lip started to wobble again. ‘We're – we're going to
die
in here, aren't we?'

‘Now, come on!' said Jasmine, with a firmness she didn't feel. The situation and what she'd seen were taking their toll on her too, and she was wondering how long her outward cool was going to hold. But she forced herself. ‘Come
on
,' she repeated. ‘It's all going to be all right.' Remembering that the last person who'd said this was Ms Gresham, she added: ‘Listen to what I'm telling you. Help will come at some point, definitely. We've . . .' She shrugged helplessly. ‘We've just got to sit tight and wait.'

‘But . . . what about the ones who've been bitten?' asked Hugo. ‘The way those things attach themselves to you looks pretty nasty.'

‘Hugo . . .' said Josh.

‘No,' said Hugo, oblivious to how little he was helping. ‘No, listen: what if, when you get one of those things on you, you
die
? When you walk around afterwards maybe you
are
some kind of zombie, like the films. Maybe the spider-things
eat your brain
and – yeah! – maybe the only bits of your mind that they leave behind are the bits that help you find
more people
, with more brains to eat. And—'

‘Hugo!' said Josh.

‘Yes, mate?'

Josh just looked at him.

‘Oh,' said Hugo, going red. ‘Um. Sorry. I'll just, ah, watch the monitors.' He stepped through the doorway again, closing the door behind him.

There was a long silence.

‘Well,' said Josh, with obvious effort, ‘the barricade with the lockers looks pretty secure, at least. And I blocked the air-vent myself. We'll be watching it: the . . . crawlers' – he grimaced – ‘won't be able to get in, not that way, not without us noticing.' He clapped his hands loudly and gave a horribly enthusiastic grin. ‘So! Since we've got some time on our hands, why don't we all have a bit of a sing-song? Come on now: who knows a good one to start with?'

Everyone stared at him.

‘I'm joking,' he said.

Nobody laughed.

‘My Queen?' said Steadman, interrupting again. ‘One of our police stations has noticed that those two officers aren't responding to radio.'

He paused as if this news was significant.

‘Well?' he asked, when I didn't reply. ‘Aren't you going to do something?'

‘What do you suggest I do, Steadman?' I asked back, through the young man's mouth.

‘The
obvious
step, one would think, would be for you to
make
those two police call in. Use your power on them. Do what you do. If you don't, very soon you're going to have a lot more of them on your hands.'

‘That,' I told him, ‘is precisely my intention.'

The speakers on the pit's brick walls were silent again for a moment.

‘You
want
more people to come?' said Steadman. ‘Are you sure you can handle that?'

‘You doubt me?'

‘Not at all,' Steadman blustered. ‘It's just that—'

‘It's just that in your experiments on me down here,' I told him, ‘I ruled just a few at a time. You weren't alive to witness my power all those years ago; you've never seen for yourself the full extent of what I can do. So now I rule some two thousand subjects in this building of yours, you worry I'm not really strong enough to rule more. Correct?'

‘Tell me again how it works,' said Steadman.

The voice from the speakers was thick, urgent, with none of the arrogance to which I had grown all too accustomed.
Steadman needed reassurance: to continue to believe in me he required another glimpse of what I was offering him. So, for what I hoped was the last time, I gave him a reply.

‘When you feel my hand upon you, Steadman,' I began, ‘you experience two things. The first is the physical shock as I penetrate your nervous system, but that is brief; next comes what will feel like complete and total
normality
. You simply find that all your wishes now coincide with mine. They will coincide so sweetly,' I told him, ‘that you might not even be aware of a difference.'

‘Less of the “you”, please,' growled the voice from the speakers. ‘I'm not one of your subjects and I'm not going to be. May I remind you that we are in this as equals: you need me,
my Queen
, and don't you forget it.'

‘A slip of the tongue,' I assured him. ‘Please let me continue.'

‘Very well.'

‘I can control my subjects directly if I choose, of course. But the simplest and most efficient way to rule is to allow them to
rule themselves
– to let their own natures limit and shape them to my purpose.'

‘And what exactly do you mean by that?'

‘When my hand is upon someone I know everything about them. I see what they see. I experience the world as they do. But I also know the contents of their minds
– the deepest secrets of their lives. One of those secrets is this: the vast majority
want
to be ruled. They may pretend independence but in fact they crave acceptance, approval, the comfort of the herd. They want their decisions made for them. They long to be directed by a higher power . . .' I paused. ‘By us.'

‘You are . . . persuasive, my Queen,' said Steadman. ‘But I'd be more confident you can keep your end of our bargain if those
schoolchildren
weren't still on the loose.'

‘I told you, Steadman,' I said patiently. ‘They didn't escape – and I can prove it. Would you like to hear a secret from one

of the youngsters right now?'

‘You can do that?' said Steadman.

Concentrating, I picked one.

‘It is a memory of school,' I told him. ‘All tonight's adult subjects, too, have strong school memories: those years seem strangely significant to your kind. But this memory is particularly potent, being
recent
.

‘It concerns a note passed during a lesson. The note is folded many times; its paper is soft and faintly greasy from the touch of many fingers. I unfold it carefully and find that the note has been signed, not just by one person, but by the whole class: twenty-two of my peers have put their name to what it says. When I read the message, my skin goes hot and tight and I tingle all over.'

I paused, intrigued. The memory was harsh and bitter. I felt the squirming sensation in my subject's guts. I noticed how, in the memory, the background sounds of the class and the other details of the moment seemed to fade and shrink, until four words were all that was left.

‘Well?' asked Steadman. ‘What does it say?'

‘The signed note says,' I told Steadman, ‘
We all hate you
.'

For a moment Steadman was silent. ‘Kids,' he said – but the amusement in his voice was false. I suspected that he had similar secrets from his own school years. I looked forward to discovering them.

‘Am I to understand, then,' he asked quickly, ‘that someone in that room is already under your control?'

‘Correct. I have already begun to undermine the most effective members of the group, and the others got this far only by luck. These children are no threat. Soon, if I keep them where they are, they will neutralize themselves.

‘So,' I told him, ‘send more adults for me to rule.'