Torchwood: The Men Who Sold The World (11 page)

‘Fall back!’ he heard Shaeffer shouting. Yeah, thought Rex,
no kidding
.

They aimed for the car but the sound of compressed metal and tinkling glass soon robbed them of that plan. Rex caught a glimpse of the little vehicle floating skywards, a ball of flames and blackening paintwork

All around them, stacks of pallets split and burned. Steel shipping containers punctured with a resounding clang, sending hot shrapnel into the air. Rex was aware of other people, dock workers, running alongside them as they tried to make it to safety. What the hell ordnance has that guy got? he wondered. Is he firing grenades? Missiles? Nuclear frigging warheads?

Explosion after explosion rang out, and all thoughts vanished. Rex’s ears were whining, his head vacant and dreamlike, as he surrendered to the rational need to run and keep running.

Sirens began to sound, but his hearing was so hammered he wouldn’t have heard them even if the emergency vehicles were running him over. All was distant and hollow, as if his head was deep underwater.

Every now and then he caught a glimpse of Shaeffer beside him, both of them running until they ran out of ground or luck.

His skin burned, seared by the fire on all sides.

Oh God, he thought, jumping up onto the road and still going, I think this is actually it. I die in confusion, just another terror statistic, a name on the scrolling bar of an enthusiastic piece of news reportage. This is the sort of event you should only see long after the fact, diluted through cheap mobile-phone cameras or long-distance aerial shots. It’s the sort of thing you discuss with your friends, disassociated from it by the extension of the TV screen. You should never actually be in it. You should never be able to feel the flames on your face. Nobody could feel that and actually live.

But he did. Both of them did. Minutes later, lying on the hot tarmac, exhausted and terrified looking at the raging inferno that was all that was left of the harbour. They looked to one another, both still deaf, both still unable to think anything but a white noise of panic. They nodded, a mutual affirmation that, against all odds they wouldn’t die. At least, not today.

By which point, Gleason’s boat was pulling out of the harbour

Mr Wynter watched the destruction from a safe distance. He followed Gleason’s boat as it made its way out to sea, watching the two men stood aft through the lens of his compact field glasses.

‘Round one to you,’ he admitted, looking at Gleason’s smiling face. ‘And that’s not something I often concede.’

He had put altogether too much weight on Mr Matheson resolving things back at the Hernandez House. It wasn’t the young man’s fault, he admitted, but nor was it a mistake Mr Wynter would make twice. The next time he cornered Gleason and his men, he would deal with them himself.

As Leonard steered the boat out to sea, cranking up the engine so that they began to bounce along the waves, both Gleason and Mulroney looked back towards what remained of the harbour. The whole place was aflame, pillars of smoke rising into the air.

‘Public announcement number one,’ said Gleason. ‘A proof of our intent.’

Mulroney nodded. ‘What next?’

Gleason smiled, holding out his burned hand in the cool breeze. ‘Public announcement number two.’

‘What are those things with the big heads?’ Terry asked, looking down at his feet, thoroughly sick of clambering through the rubble that was all that remained of the Hub. ‘You know the shiny-skinned fellers, all teeth.’

‘Weevils?’ Barry replied.

‘That’s the buggers,’ Terry agreed.

‘Why?’ asked Barry, walking over.

‘I’ve just stepped in one,’ explained Terry. ‘Half of one anyway. Must have been crushed when the wall came in.’

‘Nice,’ said Barry. ‘Stain your boots, that will.’

‘Smells of Chinese curry,’ Terry noted. ‘One of those cheap ones that come in a tin.’

‘Obviously as classy as you, then,’ Barry said, scratching at his beard and prodding a pile of wet offal with his biro to make sure it was dead.

Terry pulled his boot free and tried his best to wipe off the remains in the Weevil’s dusty hair. He walked gingerly towards the far wall, supported
himself with one hand and checked the sole of his boot.

‘It’s all in my treads,’ he complained, shuffling as he lost his balance and grabbing for a metal rod that was sticking out of the concrete wall. The rod swung back revealing a deep compartment.

Barry laughed as Terry fell over, and walked across to see what he’d accidentally uncovered. He reached inside and pulled out what looked like a rifle that had been fished out of the sea, all seaweed and barnacles.

‘What is it?’ Terry asked, getting to his feet.

‘No idea,’ Barry admitted before dropping the rifle in surprise. ‘It gave me a shock,’ he explained, ‘like it was live or something.’

Terry prodded it with the toe of his dirty boot. ‘Get your gloves on,’ he said. ‘Commander Jackson said no risks, yeah?’

‘Risks?’ said Barry, pulling on heavy-duty gloves. ‘They’re not paying us enough to take risks.’ He hoisted the rifle into a thick plastic sack. ‘Look at the state of it – Captain Birdseye’s blunderbuss. Can’t imagine anyone would have much use for it.’

Jimmy Lane was trying to force down one more tongue-full of ice cream. It was a sun-melted mix of Belgian chocolate and maple syrup, and the odds of him being able to stomach even a single lick more were not good. But what kid of 8 isn’t brave enough to try when ice cream of this quality is at stake?

‘When’s this thing get started?’ he heard his dad ask, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other as he waited for the parade to begin.

‘Any time now,’ his mum answered. ‘They don’t run late here, it’s part of the magic.’

‘Part of the magic, my ass,’ his dad replied. ‘Probably get sued by whatever union people join when they spend their days dressed as cartoon characters. “Unfair exposure to mouse-head heat exhaustion” or “developed mange due to elongated beaver imprisonment”.’

‘Shush, honey,’ his mum said, giving his dad a clip on the arm. ‘Jimmy’s listening.’

‘No, I’m not,’ Jimmy replied, dipping his tongue
in what remained of his ice-cream cup but not quite daring to swallow.

‘No, he isn’t,’ said his dad. ‘Besides, he’s not stupid, he knows they’re not real.’

‘They are so!’ said his mum.

‘Christ, Mary, you’re worse than he is.’ There was a long pause. ‘When does this thing get started, anyway?’

‘I told you,’ his mum replied. ‘Soon. They have to wait until it gets dark.’

‘It
is
dark.’

‘
Properly
dark. Otherwise the floats don’t look so good.’

‘That would never do.’ His dad scratched at a heat rash on his belly. ‘There’s got to be better things to do in Florida at night than look at lit-up dragons and elephants. We should have gone to one of those mediaeval things like last year.’

‘So you could stare at the serving wenches again? I don’t think so. It was embarrassing. Watching you sat there with a half-boner, face greasy from fried chicken. It’s not my idea of a good night out and that’s for sure.’

‘Jesus, Mary, Jimmy’s listening!’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Jimmy and, true to his word this time, he phased out their lazy argument and waited for the parade to begin.

The air smelled of food stalls, fried onions and cotton candy.

He knew the glossy Americana of the shop fronts and city hall was as false as the characters that populated it. He also knew that the magic castle in the distance was a trick of forced
perspective, a castle of the imagination, no more. He was sickly from sweet foods, and his eyes were tired, struggling to focus on the thousands of fairy lights that had sprung to life around them. For all of that, even with his parents still arguing behind him, he found himself ready to believe the night could bring anything.

He was quite right.

‘Can you do it?’ Gleason asked impatiently.

‘I think so, Colonel,’ Leonard replied, flicking between the sheets of paperwork they had removed from the weaponry files. ‘This should definitely pick up the psychic projections and manifest them so everyone can see them. Definitely.’ Leonard shook his head. ‘Who am I kidding? Not definitely. But I
think
it will.’

‘I need better than “think”, Sergeant.’

‘Sir, I’m trying to hook up two pieces of alien tech using spares from an electrical repair shop. My only guide is the research notes of a lunatic captain, who keeps breaking off from his findings to reminisce about old boyfriends. This isn’t standard field engineering, sir.’

‘Just get it right.’

Leonard bit his tongue and continued to work.

Mulroney walked over, camera in his hand. ‘Ready to make movies, sir?’

Gleason nodded. Mulroney raised the camera and stuck up his thumb to show it was recording.

‘Wise men of America,’ said Gleason directly into the camera lens, ‘who sit behind your desks and decide how best to run this world. Listen
and listen well. Because I am here to teach you a lesson.’

The floats began to move, a pre-recorded fanfare drawing a roar from the gathered crowd.

‘Would you look at that?’ said Jimmy’s dad. ‘Finally, they start.’

Jimmy wasn’t listening. He was laughing at the twirling people in costumes, the loud song piped through the hidden speakers – a song from one of his very favourite DVDs as if they had
known
, as if they had read his mind. The chase of the lights as the electric parade worked its way past him was like a controlled firework display. It was a complete sensory overload and, mind reeling, he adored every moment. The light sculptures of his favourite characters flexed, and reached out to the crowd. It was animatronics, he knew that really, you could tell by the jerky way they moved. But imagine, he thought to himself, just
imagine
if it were real. It was the most wonderful night of his life.

Then the ghosts came.

They appeared everywhere throughout the park, all brought back to re-enact their final moments.

Richie Clemens, died October 1979, thrown from the roller-coaster he was riding in celebration of his 12th birthday. Children the same age screamed as he suddenly appeared before them, crashing into the fibreglass mountainside alongside their carriage in a cracking of young limbs.

Angel Collins, died March 1983 of massive
cardiac failure. Death has not slimmed her as she twirls amongst the parade dancers clutching at her failing heart.

Shadwell Barrett, thrown beneath the wheels of a parade float by his jealous brother in June of 1994. He bounces there again, his hands snatching at the ankles of the spectators.

Brad Lurwitz, depressed stuntman in the Wild West show, shoots himself in front of the crowd just as he did eleven years ago. It still gets the best response of his career.

Everyone who has ever died within the heavily guarded barriers of this pretend world is back on their feet and dying once more.

The living run. They scream. They chase towards the exits.

The small and the slow are trodden underfoot, many adding to the ranks of the people who died here. This includes young Jimmy, a confused half-smile on his face as if waiting for the moment that the trick reveals itself and the hidden magics become nothing more than concealed levers and tricks of the light.

That moment never comes.

A crackle, as the energies released in the air distort the camcorder footage.

‘We’re coming for you,’ says Gleason, his face filling the frame, his eyes wild and filled with the reflected images of ghosts, ‘and you will give us
whatever
we want.’

‘… and you will give us
whatever
we want.’

The video stopped and Rex closed the media viewer on his phone.

‘That was in the mail inbox of every Section Chief in the Company,’ said Esther. ‘They wanted attention, they got it.’

‘What’s the party line?’

‘Terrorist gas attack, caused mass hallucination and hysteria.’

‘God bless the Age of the Terrorist,’ said Rex, ‘for, lo, it gives good cover stories.’

‘And, of course, no link with Cuba. As far as CNN is concerned, that was just an anti-Castro demonstration. Fatalities in Florida were surprisingly low and the official line is: we wait until we hear some demands.’

‘And the unofficial line?’

‘Don’t ask me. If there is one – and I’m sure there is – it’s for higher ears than mine.’

‘Which leaves us…’

‘Absolutely nowhere. Broderick wants you to
file a report and walk away. Shaeffer’s to report to Special Operations for debriefing.’

Rex sighed. He had known this was coming but it didn’t make him like it any better. ‘Hate walking away, Esther.’

‘I know.’

He hung up and walked over to the bar table he was sharing with Shaeffer.

Eager to get out of Cuba, they had flown back to Nassau on the next available flight and from there to Miami. Now, booked into a small hotel in Virginia Key, they had planned to take twenty-four hours to decide their next step. It seemed their superiors had made that decision on their behalf.

‘I’m not just strolling back in,’ said Shaeffer, after Rex had passed on the details of the call. ‘Debriefing my ass, I’ll be wearing an orange jumpsuit and officially dead within five minutes of entering Virginia.’

‘Get over yourself,’ said Rex. ‘This is the real world not
The X-Files
.’

‘This from the guy who says he met Old Man Spook himself.’

‘Just some old guy giving himself a rep he hasn’t earned. We don’t kill our own.’

‘Grow up. That’s exactly what we do if the mess is big enough to justify it. And this is one hell of a mess.’

Rex shrugged. He wasn’t going to have this argument; neither of them would win. ‘You think I like leaving it like this?’ he said. ‘It’s unfinished business. The bastard tried to have me killed,
hell, nearly managed it. If I could think of a way of hanging on in there a little longer I would. But the trail’s cold, we wouldn’t have the first idea where to start looking.’

‘I do.’