Terminal (9 page)

‘We found a few of them dead in the jungle,' Will said.

‘Werner thought that might be the case. Most vertebrates are susceptible. And the tribesmen's physiology beneath those radically different epidermal layers is essentially the same as ours,' Jürgen said.

Elliott didn't seem convinced by this. ‘They're human?' she asked. ‘They don't look it.'

But Will's mind was teeming with questions. ‘You said that you've been working with them? On what, exactly?'

‘The origins of their civilisation, the pyramids and the ruined city,' Jürgen replied. ‘Progress has been slow because communication with them is so rudimentary. You see those drawings on the table in front of him?'

Will and Elliott peered at the sheets of paper covered with pictures, similar to the pictograms carved on the exterior of the pyramids. ‘Hieroglyphs?' Will asked.

‘Yes. Right from the start, we figured out that it was the best way to have any sort of meaningful exchange. You see, their language is very basic … very limited.'

‘My dad was able to talk to them, but it didn't get us anywhere,' Will said, remembering the moment inside the pyramid.

‘That's why this tribesman was at the institute, to make recordings. We'd made the breakthrough that they communicate with each other using a whole other set of sounds which are barely audible to the human ear. It's …'

‘It's sort of high-pitched, like a buzzing noise,' Will cut in.

Jürgen nodded. ‘That's absolutely right.'

‘And it's even more difficult to hear because they move at
the same time … they rustle,' Will said, then fell silent as he stared into the middle distance. He still felt bitterness towards the bushmen about the way they had treated him and Dr Burrows. ‘I picked up on it when they took us prisoner – just before they shopped us to the Styx.'

Jürgen turned to him. ‘You know, the bushmen weren't … aren't your enemy. They don't want to get involved in anyone else's conflicts. If they gave you up to the invaders, then it was because they believed they had to in order to protect their pyramid. That's what they do. That's
all
they do. They protect their pyramids. Endless generations have been the guardians … the caretakers of something they don't seem to really understand.' Jürgen went to the observation window and held up his hand to the bushman, who held up one of his, although it resembled a bundle of twigs.

Will noticed that there were pieces of his skin scattered all around where he was sitting, like shredded leaves. ‘What's that by his feet?' he asked.

‘Their epidermal layer – their thick skin – is an evolutionary adaptation. It's both camouflage and a screen against the sun's harmful rays. But in here, away from the sunlight, the outermost layer isn't necessary, and some of it begins to dry up and slough off.'

Jürgen was obviously keen to show Will and Elliott to their rooms, and began to edge along the corridor, but Will was lost in his thoughts and oblivious to this. As Elliott took him by the arm to get him moving, he said, ‘I'd love to know what you've learnt from these people.'

‘I'd be very happy to take you through …' Jürgen said, tailing off as his son appeared. The boy thrust something into Will's hand before running off again. It was a brightly-65
coloured lollipop that rotated on its stick, like the ones Will had seen in the shop.

Jürgen smiled. ‘You are honoured indeed. Those
Kriesel
lollies are Karl's absolute favourites. You can eat it in your room, where you can take your mask off.'

‘I certainly will,' Will said, spinning the top of the lollipop with his finger and smiling after the boy.

Although the isolation rooms were small, the sleeping cots were comfortable enough, and the tinned food was a welcome change from Will and Elliott's usual fare in the jungle. Jürgen was the first candidate for Werner's vaccine, suffering nothing more than a slight headache after he was injected and his body began to produce antigens against the disease.

After twenty-four hours, Werner carried out tests on his brother's blood to establish whether he'd acquired immunity against the virus. Even though the tests proved he had, Jürgen didn't venture outside the quarantine ward, but instead kept Will and Elliott company, talking about his research on the bushmen and the ruins his team had found on expeditions into the jungle.

Werner then vaccinated himself, Karl and the bushman. The growing sense of excitement was almost palpable amongst the New Germanians, but then, halfway through the second day, there was an incident. Will was roused from his sleep by a crash and then voices in the corridor outside. Putting on his mask, he hurried from his room to find Elliott already there, with both of the New Germanian brothers. They were by the door to the bushman's room, peering in through the observation port.

‘What is it?' Will asked.

‘We don't know yet,' Werner mumbled. ‘We need to go in.'

Jürgen nodded in agreement.

Werner forced the door open, then quickly entered with his brother. That was when Will had the first glimpse.

The bushman had passed out against the door, blocking it. Whatever was wrong with him, it must have come on when he'd risen from his cot; he'd obviously knocked over a small table when he'd fallen, which accounted for the crash. He was breathing quickly and his skin was dripping with sweat.

And it
was
skin – every last scrap of the outer layer of bark-like hide had peeled off, and hunks of it were scattered over the cot and the floor around him.

There was no mistaking that he was human now – he was a wiry but fully grown man. But, at odds with this, his skin was very pink, like a newborn child's. And all over his body there were spots of blood, similar to abrasions, where shedding of the whorls of tough outer hide had caused haemorrhaging.

Jürgen and Werner each took one of the bushman's arms and carried him back to his cot.

Will saw then that he had absolutely no hair. Or eyebrows, for that matter.

‘But has this happened before?' Will asked. ‘All the outer layers dropping off?'

‘No, not with any of the other tribesmen we had with us in the Institute,' Jürgen replied, as his brother took hold of the bushman's wrist.

‘His pulse seems strong enough, but the rate is very elevated,' Werner said, as he timed it using his watch.

Jürgen looked concerned. ‘It must be a reaction to the vaccine.'

‘I can't see why. I ran some
in vitro
tests on his blood beforehand, and there was nothing to sugg—'

‘Wait – look!' Will said, as the bushman stirred, his eyes opening groggily. ‘He's coming round!'

The bushman tried to lift himself up, but Jürgen spoke soothingly to him, urging him to stay where he was. Although he probably didn't understand what he was being told, the bushman relaxed and laid his head back on the pillow. His eyes were flickering open and then closing as if it was a struggle for him to remain conscious.

Jürgen held a glass to his lips, helping him to drink some water. ‘He's very hot,' he said.

‘Maybe he's contracted a mild fever, or he's just become dehydrated,' Werner suggested, as the bushman had some more to drink.

Jürgen nodded. ‘That would explain why he fainted. And why he seems to be improving now.'

The bushman was indeed showing signs that he was recovering rapidly; he refused any more water and pushed the glass away as he attempted to speak.

There were words in the guttural language that Will had heard before, but in between these the buzzing sound was now far more audible. And this was becoming even more audible with every second. It was as if his voice box was also going through a transformation. Quite suddenly, the pitch of the buzzing sound dropped, and well-defined and ugly sounds came from his throat.

‘Jesus!' Will exclaimed, taking such a sudden step back that he collided with the wall.

Elliott was similarly shocked, too stunned to speak for the moment.

Jürgen and Werner turned towards them, giving them questioning looks.

‘What is it?' Jürgen demanded.

From the words she'd been able to recognise, the bushman had been asking what was wrong with him.

In the Styx tongue.

And as Elliott, because of her father, was fluent in the Styx language, she was able to answer the bushman in it. ‘Don't worry. We'll find out what's wrong,' she said to him, the eerie sound of her words filling the room as if someone was tearing old parchment.

‘
Mein Gott
,' Werner said.

‘
Mein Gott
, indeed,' Will said under his breath.

Elliott switched back to English for Will and the two astounded New Germanians. ‘I can understand some of what he's saying. He wants to know what's wrong with him.'

Despite the fact he was so weak, on hearing Elliott speak in the Styx tongue the bushman's eyes had flicked wide open. He heaved himself up from his cot and, before anyone could stop him, had thrown himself at her feet. With his face pressed to the floor, he continued to repeat the same words.

‘They have returned,' he was saying over and over again.

Will was dumbfounded. ‘All the time, the bushmen were talking in Styx. But at such a high pitch, no one knew it.'

He looked from the grovelling man on the floor to Elliott, and back to the man again. ‘If he can speak Styx, then maybe he's part Styx like you? And maybe your blood … your Styx blood in the vaccine caused this … changed him. But how? And why?'

 

 

 

Chapter Three

A
s the sun began its final descent, long shadows were beginning to crawl over London, where street after street was yet again without power. People were barricading themselves in their houses and preparing themselves for another night of fear, hunger and cold. But they didn't know whether they were defending themselves against the lawless gangs who were running amok without the police or army to stop them, or something far more sinister, if the rumours doing the rounds were to be believed.

In some neighbourhoods the residents had organised themselves into local militia, using vehicles to close off roads, and wielding brooms, garden implements and even saucepans to see off anyone who tried to enter their areas without good reason.

But in west London there was one bastion of apparent normality. The Westfield shopping centre, Britain's largest mall, was somehow still connected to an active grid, and the light flooding through its windows proved to be irresistible to those too terrified to remain at home.

No one had thought to turn the sound system off and
piped music was playing in the background as, at regular intervals, a forced, DJ-smooth voice gave a pre-recorded message about forthcoming but long-out-of-date promotions. The shops themselves were definitely off limits with their security grilles firmly across them. Some still had goods in the window, but others had been vacated and the stock removed until, it was hoped, conditions returned to normal.

All along the walkways in the shopping centre, people in sleeping bags or swaddled in blankets were settling down for the night. It was reminiscent of scenes from the Second World War when the underground platforms had been used as air-raid shelters. There may have been electricity to keep the lights burning, but the heating was another matter, and it was bitterly cold inside the building. A succession of small fires had been lit and were being stoked with empty packaging or whatever else could be found to keep them going, as empty-eyed faces stared into their meagre flames.

Bound up in their own misery, none of them took much notice as a woman passed by. Tall and elegant, she threaded her way between the untidy clumps of people, her high heels clicking on the polished floor. If they had paid her any attention, they would have observed that she wore an expensive fur coat with the collar turned up, and that two men with hoods obscuring their faces were like twin shadows as they followed silently behind.

A child, no more than six years old, made straight towards her and planted himself insolently in her path.

‘Oi, rich lady, got anything to eat?' the boy demanded.

The woman, Hermione, stared down at him with undisguised disgust. ‘What?' she said.

‘I said, got anything to eat?' the boy repeated, this time
jabbing a dirty finger impatiently at his mouth as if he was talking to someone too stupid to understand him.

Her dark-rimmed eyes blazed with anger, the muscles in her razor-lean face tightening so that she looked more like a sculpture than a human being. ‘Yes …' she growled, ‘… you!'

But as she finished speaking, a flood of lacteous saliva slopped over her black lip.

Not taking his eyes from her, the boy inclined his head and made a coarse noise as if he was vomiting, then swaggered away. He knew he was still in earshot as he added, ‘Gross old minger.'