S.O.S (2 page)

“Sir, we've done it!” exclaimed Dr Stamn as he composed himself, adjusting his glasses and wiping away the sweat of his palms on his lab coat.

The Colonel considered for a moment. He didn't like to praise; it showed weakness.

“Good,” he said calmly, which for him was high approval. “Show me.”

He followed Dr Stamn down through twisting corridors and steel staircases, descending further into the bunkered heart of the base. They stopped at the correct section where Dr Stamn allowed his eyes to be scanned before gaining access and made their way into a huge room.

This was the room at the hub of the experiment. Filled with high tech computer technology not seen anywhere else in the world, banks of screens showing measurements and readings that were undecipherable to an outsider.

Stamn's team, usually seen hard at work, were all milling around excitedly, shaking hands and congratulating each other, but they gradually fell silent as they noticed the Colonel's presence. The Colonel let them have their moment of triumph; if they had truly been able to succeed in their mission then it was well deserved.

A hush finally pervaded the lab, but the excitement and tension in the room was still palpable. Dr Stamn cut a path through the small crowd and The Colonel followed him. They reached the far end of the room, a steel reinforced concrete wall, lined with lead that ran the length of the lab. It had one long, thin eye level slit cut into it, fitted with a reconstructed glass-like material, six inches thick, which allowed a small view into the bunker beyond the wall.

The Colonel, Stamn and the other scientists gathered along this thin viewing panel and looked into a vast cavern, its walls reinforced as the room was with steel, lead and concrete. Littered throughout the enormous fissure were an array of vehicles and objects; the latest model of attack tank used by the army, reinforced houses, models of soldiers wearing the latest flak jackets and protective gear and the rats that had colonised the expanse long ago. The Colonel felt the muscle in his neck twitch with excitement. He turned to Dr Stamn who was by now working with a team at a computer, preparing what was about to happen.

Dr Stamn looked up from the screen. “I've placed it in the centre of the cave and prepared a tiny amount of energy to be released.” He stared at the Colonel. “From our calculations that is all we need.”

The Colonel acknowledged this fact with a small nod of the head.

“Preparing for countdown,” he said. Suddenly warning sirens blared out across the vast plain of rock, startling the rats so that they scampered into corners and cowered. There was absolute silence. A countdown appeared on the screen:

5

4

3

2

1

A blinding flash dazzled the Colonel. For a moment he lost sight and was forced to steady himself as the ground shook from under him. Blinking furiously he looked around. People stood dazed and shaken. He peered through the sight line at the cavern. He blinked again.

There was nothing left of the houses, of the armoured vehicles or even the rats which had scurried into corners. They had evaporated.

The Colonel surveyed the barren wilderness with awe, and thought about the potential that these geniuses had uncovered. He turned and, pausing briefly to shake the hand of a shaken Dr Stamn, walked swiftly away to relay news. News of a discovery that would build the state of North Korea into the supreme and unchallenged force in the world.

*

Newcastle

The snow came to Newcastle, at first a few gentle flakes fluttered down upon the late night party-goers, dusting them quietly with frost. They drew their coats closer about their shoulders as the cold bit and hurried home, their drunken laughter quickly snatched away by the howling wind and lost. The flurry grew heavy on the banks of Tyneside, erupting into a blizzard that roared its anger through busy streets and deserted alleyways, blanketing the earth.

In one forgotten corner a homeless youth huddled against the doorframe of a quiet house, arms wrapped around his knees and head bowed against the storm. He shivered uncontrollably in a thin hooded sweatshirt over a dirty vest top. He hugged his knees closer, in a vain effort to block out the Arctic chill and could feel his fingers grow numb and lose their grip. His toes too began to lose their feeling, his worn trainers doing nothing to guard against the bitter cold that seeped into every pore of his thin body.

He sat there, frozen, and felt the numbness spread up his legs, his arms and through his chest, the cold gripping his heart in a vice making him gasp. In his ear he could hear the thump of it, once so rhythmic but now it seemed to beat slower, missing beats, shutting down. The boy slowly looked up from the crook of his arms and everything seemed blurred, the shapes of arches and streetlamps indistinguishable in the whitewash around him. It was becoming harder to breathe; the cold air was painful as it passed his blue and swollen lips. He couldn't think straight. His thoughts had slowed along with his heartbeat and all his mind was telling him to do was to remove his hoodie in an effort to keep warm. Conjuring the last of his effort to stay conscious he looked up and thought he saw a flash of white light glimmering; a light so close he thought that he could reach out and touch it, but his arms were too heavy. He sank back against the wooden doorframe with the last of his breath. The white faded into black and disappeared. His eyelids drooped.

*

London

The church was quiet and dark as Father Tom sat in prayer. He hadn't been able to sleep and so had left the priest's house across the road and let himself into the vast old crumbling building that stood on the side of a main road in the east end of London. There were a couple of homeless sleeping in the porch and he'd covered them with the extra blankets he kept in the back of the church, leaving them where they were, not having the heart to move them on as the Bishop wanted him to do.

He lit some of the candles but kept the electric lights off to save money and sat in a pew near the front, praying for the poor and the sick, the homeless and the needy. His lips moved silently. He was deep in thought. There was a sharp crack behind him.

Father Tom opened his eyes but stayed very still. He kept his breathing steady. He was frightened. At the back of the church he heard whisperings, a scuffle. He held his breath.

Suddenly he felt his head being yanked backwards and a tight grip on his throat. He closed his eyes as a blow hit him across the temples. When he opened them he was staring down the barrel of the gun. He glanced up briefly at the man who pointed it at him. He wore a mask.

“Where do you keep the valuables?” The man snapped. The voice was young; too young to be doing this, Tom thought briefly. The voice was young and afraid.

“In the safe in the room behind the altar.” Father Tom answered. He sounded calmer than he felt.

“I-in a safe?” The young man was caught off guard. This was too easy; he was suspicious.

“Yes. The number is 32, 24.” Father Tom quietly replied. He'd done this before; theft, pain.

Tom stayed very still. He saw a signal to two others out of the corner of his eye and he heard a scuffle; the faint click of the lock as they broke into the safe quickly and quietly.

They returned, one of them, short, a hoodie pulled up over his head, a bandana round his mouth, had a small rucksack slung over his shoulder. The other one, bigger, more cumbersome, also with a hoodie and bandana, folding away a small knife he had used to prise the hinge without fingerprints. The gunman nodded to them and they proceeded to check every alcove of the Church for anything else of value.

Finding nothing they signalled to the gunman who turned, and strode menacingly towards Father Tom. The man raised his gun steadily, confidently.

“Empty your pockets,” he said.

Father Tom raised his arms to try and pacify him. “I-I don't have anything in my pockets...” he stammered. “Please, you've got everything...” A bead of cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck.

“Empty them.”

Father Tom gulped, the fear rising in his chest, yet he had to reason with them. “I swear to God I'm telling the –”

Wham! Before he had even blinked the young man had stepped forward and hit him hard across the cheek with his gun. Father Tom fell to the ground in a heap, his frame folding as he covered his head with his arms, waiting for more.

Suddenly a white light flashed across his vision. His attacker cried out with terror, his accomplices shouting and scrambling. Father Tom stayed where he was, cowering on the ground and heard them flee down the aisle and out of his church, their boots booming and echoing in the vast space. He stayed like that for some time, too afraid to uncover his head, too weakened to get up.

Finally, unsteadily, Tom got to his feet. He touched his hand to his lip and tasted blood. He'd have a shiner tomorrow, but just a shiner. Relief flooded him. He'd survived; he was still alive.

He cast around the dim church and saw they'd taken nothing except the stuff in the safe. He made a mental calculation; a chalice, two communion plates – all worthless. They used to be silver, but the church had been robbed three times and now they were polished nickel; worthless.

Again he touched his face and felt for the swelling as he made his way to the back of the church. He had no idea what had just happened. He stopped. He remembered the gun, the hit and then... then a light. Where had it come from? He tried to think but his head throbbed in agony; it made him wince. He stumbled to a pew, sat and stared into the gloom of the church.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted something strange; something glinting in the dimness. He stood and walked stiffly to the wall where something lay on the floor between a statue of the Virgin Mary and a portrait of the crucifixion. He knelt, his back aching from the blow, and picked up a small metal badge; silver enamel with a sharp pin on the back. He turned it over in the palm of his hand and saw the word ‘science'. He held it and closed his fingers over it. The church had been cleaned that morning; he'd seen the ladies go round the skirting with the hoover. This wasn't here then; it couldn't have been.

He glanced at the wall and it was then that he saw it. He caught his breath. There, right at the base of the wall and carved into the stone was a symbol. His sense of unease grew. Bewildered, he leant forward to examine it, moving his hand over the strange shapes that had not been there before. Shapes, symbols, lines, all connected, but somehow separate. It looked like some celestial sign.

Tom stood up and shook his head. He was becoming fanciful; white lights and celestial signs? He took a breath and walked towards the sacristy to get some cold water on his face. It was nonsense; it was the blow to the head. He ran a bowl of icy water and splashed it onto his swollen eye and cheek. Then he stood straight, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and walked back into the church. He turned on all the lights and hurried across to the sign on the wall.

Nothing in this world was nonsense and signs didn't just appear for no reason. He knelt and began to copy it onto the paper. He didn't know what any of this meant, but he was certainly going to find out.

Zack woke, as if from a dream, to a sea of snow and shivered. He yawned, stretched out his limbs, causing a flurry to fall from his hair, and looked about the deserted street where he'd spent the night. The snow seemed more churned than usual he thought, as if someone had been there in the night. Strange that he hadn't woken; he was usually so alert. He shrugged and stood, surprised that he didn't ache and walked out onto the busier main street.

Here the snow had turned to a wet, black slush from the traffic and when he looked down his trainers were soaked. He didn't feel it though; his feet were numb. With his hands buried in his pockets, he narrowly missed a middle-aged man who was charging along the pavement, attention focussed on his phone. Zack swore violently after him, but the man didn't even break stride and ignored him. Typical self-involved banker, Zack thought, who had to buy his kids' love.

He wandered for a while, aware that he must have got used to the icy cold and thought about what to do. Normally he'd have been queuing for a hot drink now at the drop-in centre and some food, but this morning he wasn't hungry. So he walked, out of the main pedestrian thoroughfare, away from the crowds, alongside the Tyne for a while then down to Jesmond and through to Heaton. It was miles but he didn't notice.

Slowly the buildings became more rundown and shabbier and, turning a corner, he recognised where he was. He must have some sort of homing device – if you could call this home. Zack walked on and stood across the road from the ugly, neglected four story building that he had lived in for as long as he could remember. The thought of the place made him shudder. The front garden was overgrown, weeds climbing up the wire fence and nettles choking the hedges and plants with their tight grip. The place was bleak.

A police car pulled up. Zack pulled his hoodie up over his head and tucked his chin down to hide his face. Cop cars were always pulling up outside Helton Court; there was always trouble of some kind or another. He watched as a couple of officers got out and knocked on the door. Pearson, the man who ran the place, opened up. He remembered big welts on his body from the belt buckle, bruises the size of your fist, and then he turned and ran as fast as he could back the way he came, away from the memories and the pain.

Once out of view he bent over, breathing hard. He reckoned the police were probably there because of him; he'd been missing for several weeks now and officially the home would have filed a missing persons report. Unofficially they'd have been glad to see the back of him no doubt. He stood straight, not wanting to linger too close to the home and carried on walking. The last thing he needed was to be found now, especially not with his track record with the law.