Monster Republic (2 page)

Well, that suited Cameron fine. So long as someone was making plenty of notes he could borrow, that meant he could relax. Besides, as
well as being drop-dead gorgeous, Marie was super bright, so she was probably taking in lots of facts even while they were laughing and joking around.

‘Hey, look!’ She pointed. Nearby, Mr Hackford was trying to explain the process of nuclear fission to a blank-faced Darren. ‘Looks like someone needs rescuing …’

Marie led the way over. ‘Sir? Mr Hackford?’

‘Yes, Marie?’

‘I thought this exhibition was about the future. Who gets excited about nuclear power any more?’

Cameron bit his lip and concentrated on keeping a straight face.

‘I mean, it’s not very safe, is it?’ she continued. ‘What about that place that blew up and created all those mutant sheep? Chernobyl.’

‘That was many years ago. And it was in Ukraine. Nuclear power stations are much safer and much cleaner than they used to be.’

‘Yes, but they can still explode, can’t they?’

‘Yes, Miss Lyons,’ snapped Hackford. ‘They can, and so can I. And you and Mr Reilly have
already tested my patience quite sufficiently today. Do I make myself clear? Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

The trio waited for Mr Hackford’s retreating form to disappear behind a huge plasma screen before bursting into laughter.

‘Thanks, guys,’ said Darren.

Marie grinned. ‘Saved you from death by boredom!’

Cameron loved Marie’s wicked sense of humour. She’d already made the day’s ordeal a lot easier to bear. He didn’t mind science, even found some of it interesting – especially practical experiments – but it wasn’t really his thing. He was much more into sports and activities. And his race with Darren in the car park was probably going to be the most activity he’d get today.

‘Come on,’ said Cameron. ‘Let’s go and look at the upper level.’

They walked over to the winding metal staircase that led to the high gallery. From the ground floor, it looked as if the upper level contained more of the same sort of exhibits.

A few students were already up there, and there seemed to be some sort of commotion. It was no surprise that the familiar figure of Carl Monkton was at the centre of it. He had pinned Nigel against the gallery railing and, as Cameron stared, he hoisted the smaller boy up by his lapels and leaned him backwards as if he was going to tip him over.

‘Reckon you can fly, Smith?’

The kid whimpered and sobbed.

Cameron swore and glanced around. Mr Hackford was over on the other side of the exhibition, talking to a small group of students. There were no guides or other adults nearby. But somebody had to do something …

‘Darren, go and get Hackford, quick. Marie, you stay here.’

As Darren ran off, Cameron grabbed hold of the banister and raced up the stairs. Behind him, he could hear Marie’s feet clanging on the metal steps. He should have known she wouldn’t stay behind. Marie hated bullies.

‘OK, Carl,’ said Cameron levelly as he
reached the gallery. ‘Put him down. Here, on the upstairs level, if you don’t mind.’

‘All right, Mr Perfect,’ said Carl, shooting Cameron an ugly look and shoving Nigel roughly aside. ‘Come on then, Reilly. Want to have a go yourself?’

Cameron stood his ground, but refused to take the bait by getting any closer. ‘Leave it, Carl. You’re meant to be learning stuff today, not getting yourself a bloody nose.’

As soon as he’d said it, Cameron winced at the mistake. That was tantamount to a challenge, making it harder for Carl to back down.

Sure enough, Carl took a step forward, fists bunched.

‘Come on then, Reilly,’ he repeated. ‘You want to learn something? I’ll teach you.’

Cameron shrugged tightly. He couldn’t see any way out of this now. Where the hell was Darren with Mr Hackford?

‘Cameron,’ warned Marie, from somewhere behind him.

Cameron raised his own fists, waiting for
Carl to make the first move. Ready for the first punch, and ready to give as good as he got.

The punch never came. The fight never happened. The day had bigger things in store for Carl and Cameron. Huge, life-changing things.

Starting with a massive explosion.

Cameron awoke with a jolt.

Bright light and fizzing shadows flashed across his vision, as if he was looking out from inside a television through a screen of static. Although his eyes refused to focus, he had the unnerving sensation of someone hovering closely over him. Too close.

His ears were struggling as well. He could hear a voice, but the words reached him as murmurs, like transmissions from a distant star, even though each one was delivered with a wash of hot, sour breath across his face.

Slowly – painfully slowly – the static resolved into shapes, the shapes into features, the
features into a blurry face; one Cameron was vaguely sure he should recognize. But his brain felt as sluggish as his senses. He had a thumping headache, steady and rhythmic, like a pounding fist beating against his skull.

He forced a blink, but only one of his eyelids seemed to be working. The face above him smiled thinly.

‘Well, that’s something. Subject is responsive. At last.’

‘Subject?’ Cameron tried to repeat, but his voice sounded cracked and dry, as if he’d been crawling across a desert for a week.

Still, the word told him something. It sounded medical. Was he in hospital? Surely not. In hospital they called you a patient, not a ‘subject’. But the man leaning over him seemed to be wearing a white coat. That meant he had to be a doctor, didn’t it?

Yes, that was it! The man was a doctor. Cameron had seen him on the TV.

Perhaps he
was
in some strange kind of hospital, then. He certainly seemed to be lying down, but if he was in a bed, it could have done
with being a lot more comfortable. It was hard and cold, and his head was resting on a solid, unyielding lump rather than a pillow.

Before he could croak out another question, a probing light pierced Cameron’s eyes, blinding him.

‘Hmm. Light filter has failed to engage.’

The words meant nothing to Cameron, but the speaker sounded disappointed.

‘Pupils not equal, of course,’ observed the voice, with a humourless chuckle. ‘But reactive nonetheless.’ The light vanished and the voice hardened. ‘What do you remember?’

Cameron frowned. Was the doctor talking to
him
? He tried to force the blurred outline into a sharper image. With a superhuman effort, he focused his eyes on the speaker.

Wispy white hair atop a high-domed head. A pale face, broad and bony at the cheeks, that narrowed to a pointed chin. Shrewd eyes magnified by thick lenses, fenced in with gleaming silver frames. He
did
know this man.

‘Dr Fry?’ said Cameron, his voice still rough.

Dr Lazarus Fry was something of a local celebrity. Massively rich, he lived in a gleaming modern house on the north side of Broad Harbour. The Fry Foundation, his personal charity, was always involved in some generous new project for the community – repairing a run-down school or building an orphanage. Cameron knew he should be in safe hands. But he didn’t feel safe.

‘Facial recognition,’ remarked the doctor. ‘And some evidence of intact memory.’ He leaned closer, treating Cameron to an overly clear view of flaring nostrils. ‘But
what
do you remember?’ he repeated.

Cameron frowned again, thinking back. His memory was foggy, but faint images jostled together in his mind: a large building filled with children; a thick-set boy with his fists raised; bright, blossoming orange light.

‘An explosion. We were … We were on a school trip.’

But where am I now?

Cameron tried to turn his head to get a better view of the room he was in, but it wouldn’t budge a centimetre. They must have strapped his head in place. Had he broken his neck? Concentrating, Cameron tried to flex his arms and legs, but his limbs didn’t respond. It was as if his brain had been disconnected from the rest of his body. Panic flooded him.

‘Am I hurt?’ he croaked.

As Cameron spoke, another jolt of pain shot through him. It was gone as quickly as it had arrived, but it left his nerves tingling and jittery, like a mega-bad case of pins and needles.

‘Hmm,’ said Dr Fry, standing up. To Cameron’s hazy senses it seemed as if the man’s face was floating away from him into the air.

Fry raised an instrument over Cameron’s body – something that looked like a mobile phone or Nintendo DS – and inspected the screen. He pursed his bloodless lips and shook his head.

‘W-w-what is it?’ stammered Cameron. ‘Am I going to die?’

The doctor ignored him, turning instead to address someone out of Cameron’s field of vision. ‘Barely acceptable. This will do for our first objective, but I think we can do much, much better. Store it and bring me the next subject.’

‘Yes, Dr Fry,’ said a gruff voice.

Cameron heard footsteps shuffle closer, felt a jab in his left shoulder. Cold poured into his arm, and the static started to buzz across his vision again, like a TV that had lost its signal.

Then the screen went dead.

Cameron woke again.

His head was still pounding and he was freezing – as though he’d woken up in a fridge. And instead of the fuzzy vision there was only darkness. He shivered.

A shadow flitted past him in the gloom.

Cameron jumped, his whole body jerking. But at the same instant that one part of his
mind registered the shock, another part registered over whelming relief. Whatever was wrong with him, he wasn’t paralysed!

The shadow flicked by again, brushing softly against his shoulder. He flinched, trying to pull away. There was a rapid series of clicks, and suddenly Cameron found he could move his right arm.

That was when he twigged: he had been strapped down, his arms and legs securely fastened with metal restraints. The shadow was unfastening them.

‘What … what’s going on?’

‘
Shhhh
,’ hissed someone. ‘Stay still.’

A girl’s voice, soft and throaty. She hurried down towards his right leg and began to work on the strap there.

Whoever she was, Cameron wished that she had started with the one securing his head. The only view he had was of a darkened ceiling. But with his right hand free, he ought to be able to release his head himself.

Cameron lifted his arm. It felt heavy and clumsy, as though he’d been sleeping on it all
night. His hand fumbled uselessly at the strap across his forehead, fingers searching for the buckle or clasp.

‘What’s going on?’ he said. ‘What’s happened to me? Am I hurt? Am I in hospital or what?’

The shadow threw aside the strap on his right leg and was around to his left in a flash. ‘Sorry, but we’re going to have to save the questions for later. My name’s Rora and I’m here to help you, and that’s all you’re going to get for now.’ She tugged the leg restraint loose, then moved to the one on his left arm. ‘We have to get out of here.’

Whoever this girl was, she didn’t sound much like a nurse. But then this place didn’t feel much like a hospital. Cameron swallowed hard. He didn’t really want to consider the other possibilities.

He was getting nowhere with the strap at his head. His fingers might as well have been a bunch of sausages, they were so numb and useless. What was wrong with him? Why was nobody willing to tell him what was going on?
Neither the doctor nor this strange girl. And where were his mum and dad?

Cameron tried clenching and unclenching his fingers to get some feeling back into them, but they weren’t co-operating. At last Rora undid the last of his straps and his head was free. Impatiently he sat up straight and looked around.

Dizziness swamped him. His head reeled as his vision snapped into crystal-clear focus. It was as if someone had switched on a bright light inside his head. The sudden sharpness was overwhelming. No matter how much he shook his head to try to get rid of it, it stayed stubbornly with him. What did it mean?

Cameron scanned the room, fighting the giddiness. The lights were out, but despite the darkness he could make out rows of beds and tables, all shrouded with white sheets. This, combined with the freezing temperature, reminded Cameron uncomfortably of a morgue. And all he had on was a loose-fitting hospital gown. Terrific.

‘Come on,’ said Rora, helping him – practically dragging him – to his feet.

Cameron staggered, his legs wobbling. He bumped against whatever it was he had been lying on, and turned round to look at it. The metal medical trolley trundled a short distance before coming to rest against one of the beds.

‘This isn’t right,’ he insisted. ‘They don’t keep patients on trolleys. They don’t keep them in the freezer unless they’re …’ He scrubbed that thought right away: clearly he wasn’t dead. ‘Well, unless they’re not patients any more.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Rora. ‘Can you walk?’

‘Of course I can,’ hissed Cameron, gritting his teeth as an agonizing flash of pins and needles raced up his legs. He took a tottering step, his whole body feeling wobbly. He tried to take another, but as he threw his left leg forward, he overbalanced, almost falling. Rora leaped forward to steady him. Cameron stiffened, pushing
her away far less gently than he’d intended.

‘Give me a minute,’ he snapped.

With a low growl, Rora backed off. Regaining his balance, Cameron stared at her. Even with his strange, super-clear vision, he couldn’t get a good view of the girl’s face; it was shrouded under a hood, but he could see that her skin was dark. Although she didn’t look hostile, there was something odd about her that he couldn’t quite pin down. For the moment, though, he had bigger things to worry about.

Like walking.

Aiming for one of the nearer beds, Cameron took another step. His movements were leaden and awkward, but his legs didn’t feel as if they were about to give out. They felt firm enough, just … different. As if he was learning to walk on a pair of iron stilts. The dizziness didn’t make it any easier.

‘Maybe this is what it’s like to be drunk,’ he muttered.

‘Get used to it. Quickly. I’m going to check the coast is clear.’