Coldbrook (Hammer) (29 page)

Jayne ran towards the aircraft, swallowing down bile. Her vision swam. Smoke stung her throat and nose, and her eyes were watering. There was a bus parked a hundred feet from the plane’s left wing, and she kept a wary eye on it.

‘Let me go first!’ Sean said from behind her. She slowed, he overtook her and grabbed her hand again, and then they were at the foot of the stairs. Panting, he slammed a fresh magazine into his gun and started up the staircase. ‘Wait halfway up. Stay ready to run back down.’

Jayne nodded and sat on a stair, watching him climb and then looking back the way they had come. She hoped there had been more escapees, but she could see none. Scores of frantic figures were gathered around the plane’s exits, climbing the deflated chutes, falling back as those trapped inside struck them with feet or chairs or metal food canisters. A food trolley was shoved from one door, taking several clinging attackers with it. The forward door had been pulled shut again, and she wondered what was happening inside right now. She could see movement through the windows but could make no sense of it.
Fighting to the last
.

‘Jayne,’ Sean called from above. ‘Come on.’

She climbed the last few stairs and entered the aircraft,
standing beside the marshal where he kept his gun at the ready.

‘Got to shut this door.’ As he did that, Jayne stumbled towards the front and sank into a seat, starting to giggle when she realised this was the first time she’d ever been in First Class. She picked up some cutlery from a seat tray – real stainless steel, not the plastic stuff she was used to – and giggled some more. And when Sean appeared and raised an eyebrow she showed him the knife, and laughed so much that it nearly made her sick.

Sean checked the aircraft three more times before declaring it clear.

They sat together, drinking orange juice and eating cold chicken curry, and then Jayne raided the First Class kitchen and found the drinks store. They cracked open a bottle of wine. They said little, because they could still hear the sounds of chaos from outside. Looking across to the aircraft they had abandoned, they saw that both starboard doors had been closed, and now and then they could make out vague movement inside. ‘Survivors,’ Sean said, but Jayne could only imagine the alternative – that they’d somehow locked all the doors without realising that the contagion was inside, and now it was an aircraft filled with zombies.

Sean tried his cellphone constantly but he could find no signal.

Their aircraft had been stocked and prepped for flight. The seats were neat and tidy, kitchen lockers filled with ready-meals waiting to be warmed, and Sean said the fuel tanks were probably full.

‘Don’t suppose you know how to fly a 757?’ he asked.

They’d finished one bottle of wine and started on a second before Jayne asked him to finish his story.

Sean looked at the gun on the small folding table he’d brought out of his seat. He rubbed his glass back and forth across his lip, then drained the red wine in one swig.

‘Does it matter any more?’ he asked.

‘Sure. You saved me. It matters to me.’

‘But why’d you want to know?’

Jayne shrugged, because there was no clear answer to that. ‘My granny told me never to trust a man with scars.’

Sean touched his cheek. ‘I was a cop in New York,’ he said at last. ‘I saw the towers come down, felt pretty hopeless. I’d put my years in, so I handed in my notice to become a sky marshal. Felt like that was taking action. Stupid, maybe.’

‘Not stupid,’ Jayne said. ‘So is that how you got . . .?’ She touched her own cheek.

Sean snorted softly. ‘Last week on the job, some drunk in a Greenwich Village bar took a swing at me. Still holding his glass.’

Jayne couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Shitty luck, pure and simple.

Sean glanced around for the wine bottle, poured some more, and then paused. In the distance an aircraft’s jets roared.

All the time they’d been hidden away no other aircraft had landed.
Last one out of Knoxville, last one back to Hell
, Jayne had quipped. They had seen fires in the distance, watched blood-covered people rushing across the airfield, and there had been a series of explosions from the main terminal.

Now came a sound more familiar to airports.

‘Jesus!’ Sean said, darting to the window. ‘Pilot must have survived.’

It was the aircraft they’d come in on. It taxied away from them, one emergency chute still hanging deflated from a rear door. Its big wheels passed over one of the prone shapes beneath it.

‘Maybe he locked himself in the cockpit,’ Jayne said.

‘Or the survivors have had a vote. Not much to stay here for.’

‘Didn’t the stewardess say they were flying on fuel fumes?’

‘Yeah,’ Sean said.

They watched, standing side by side. Five minutes after firing up its engines, the plane powered along the runway and lifted off. It climbed quickly, tilting its wings and catching the rays of the sinking sun as it headed north.

‘Canada?’ Jayne said.

‘Maybe.’

They moved to the other side of their aircraft to see the escaping one climb away. It was little more than a diamond in the sky, reflecting the tired yellow of late-afternoon sunlight, while Sean went to find another drink.

And Jayne could not breathe as she watched the aircraft die, a falling star, barely visible as it plummeted into the hazy distance. She did not see the impact, and she turned away as Sean returned and asked her what was wrong. She told him.

‘Fumes,’ he said.

They opened another bottle of wine.

Every minute I’ve been out of it
, Holly thought as she came around.
Every minute, every second, it’s getting worse
. The scenes that she had seen in the casting room flashed before her again and again, and before she opened her eyes she saw a parade of dead children and bloodied, blank faces.

Drake Slater was sitting beside her as she surfaced. The fainting fit pulled away quickly, her senses returned, and she realised that she’d received a far lower dose of whatever had knocked her out than she had last time.

‘Nice way of greeting a visitor,’ she muttered.

‘Sorry,’ Drake said, not sounding like he meant it. ‘We’ve grown used to looking after each other.’

‘And you drugged me because I was losing my temper?’ Holly sat up on a cot bed. The room around her was sparse and functional She ran a hand through her knotted hair, wishing for a brush, some shampoo. She was beginning to understand why the people here wore their hair short or in tight braids.

‘Moira heard you say “God”.’

‘Oh?’ She’d already clocked their aversion to the G-word.

‘We’re people of science. But that doesn’t mean we don’t fear the Inquisitor.’

Holly remained silent, hoping that he would continue. And he did.

‘I’m as convinced as I’ll ever be that you’re telling the truth, so . . . I suppose that now it’s safe to tell you. There are those who believe that because some of us survived, the Inquisitor will return one day.’ He smiled, with little humour in his expression. ‘It’s the opposite of the old Jesus legend.’

‘This Inquisitor – it’s a legend?’

Drake shrugged. He seemed suddenly nervous again, evasive. So Holly tried another tack.

‘You cast God aside so easily?’

‘Easily?’ Drake asked. ‘Not easily at all, as far as I’m
aware. When I was a child God was a comfort to many, though not all. Much like in your world, I suspect. My father was a true believer but, since the Furies, God has been down there with them. And any mention now is an offence.’ He shrugged, at the same time trying to smile.

‘Just because this happened doesn’t mean that He doesn’t exist,’ Holly said.

‘Perhaps in your world. But keep it to yourself. There are people here who’d attack you if they heard that, and some who might even kill you.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Holly shivered.

‘We believe the End was God’s fault,’ Drake said. Holly snorted, but he continued. ‘That’s what most of us believe. It’s what the Coldbrook journals tell us – that the Inquisitor was a servant of God, and it came through to ensure that the Fury plague took our whole world. It oversaw our demise, and then took Coldbrook’s chief with it. To another new world. A new Inquisitor to continue spreading the disease.’

‘The Inquisitor sounds like a ghost.’

‘Most people believe in it.’

‘And what do
you
think?’

‘I think God was as much to blame for the Furies as he was for a hundred wars through history.’

‘But that was forty years ago. You’re maybe forty yourself? I haven’t seen anyone here old enough to remember.’

‘There are a few. But blame is handed down through the generations. And there is proof.’

Holly leaned back against the wall, saddened, and convinced more than ever that Drake was only telling her parts of the story.

‘I’d like to know . . .’ Drake said, but he trailed off as if he was unsure.

‘Know what?’

‘Where we parted,’ he said. ‘Where our Earths became different possibilities.’

Holly smiled. ‘You’re talking Jonah’s language now.’

‘We seemed to be far ahead of you,’ Drake mused. ‘Our technology a long way further on than yours. Perhaps that’s why the Furies hit us first.’

‘You don’t seem
that
far ahead,’ Holly said defensively. But then she thought of the casting room, the incredible technology of the mini-black hole, and wondered just how much Gaia had lost.

‘You’re aware of the many-worlds interpretation?’

‘Jonah’s tried explaining it to me. An infinite number of universes, created at every possible quantum event? Everything that could have happened in our history but didn’t has happened in some other universe. Or something.’

‘Every decision, every event, creates another possible universe,’ Drake said.

‘Much more eloquent than me.’

‘So which decision or event separates our Earths?’

‘How can we ever tell?’ Holly asked.

‘It could be something as small as someone turning left instead of right,’ Drake said. He stared at her, his piercing eyes filled with his sense of wonder.
Jonah would love him
, Holly thought.

‘You had Beethoven?’ she asked. ‘Mozart? Brahms?’

Drake nodded. ‘Shakespeare, Dickens, Melville.’

‘The First World War?’ she asked. ‘Hitler? Nagasaki?’

‘Churchill, Stalin, Roosevelt and Truman.’

‘The Swinging Sixties?’

‘I’ve read about that,’ Drake said, and Holly could see that he did not understand. How different his forty years must have been here, compared to her thirty-seven years on Earth. So different that she could not count the ways.

‘Kennedy?’ she asked. ‘Led Zeppelin? The Beatles?’

‘“Lucy in the Sky”,’ Drake said. ‘This could take for ever.’ He shook his head, smiling, and his sense of wonder was more visible than ever.

‘Jonah would so love to meet you.’

‘And I him.’ Drake stared at her, more intensely than ever, and for so long that Holly felt the true impact of the distance between them. Then he smiled again, and held her hand.

‘I have more to show you.’

‘I’m not sure that I want to see it.’

‘You have to,’ he said.

‘Why?’

‘Because others here at Coldbrook insist upon it,’ he said. ‘This plague was no accident.’

‘And you have no cure,’ she said. ‘In all these years, has nothing been found?’

‘There have been attempts,’ Drake said. ‘But no cure. I’ve been looking for one all my life. Even Mannan . . .’ He trailed off, clenching his hands as if realising his mistake.

‘So many secrets,’ Holly said. ‘What or who is Mannan?’

Drake shook his head slowly. ‘In your world, are there still wars?’

‘Wouldn’t be Earth if that wasn’t the case,’ Holly said.

‘That’s the one thing the furies stopped, at least. There are no more wars, because the whole world’s fragmented and regressed. From here, we sometimes deal with a dozen other communities, some of them quite large. But there is always some risk from the furies. One community gets too close to another, too tied in, and they’ll both go down if the plague catches them out. So isolation is the key to survival.’

‘That excuses secrets?’

‘From you, yes. Of course. You’re not just from another settlement or continent.’

‘Hopeless,’ Holly said.

‘Hope is what keeps some of us alive,’ Drake said, and the sudden passion in his voice was contagious. ‘Much of the world has given up, winding down as
much as the furies have. But we still have reason to believe.’

‘In a cure?’ she asked. ‘Something unproven and seemingly beyond your reach? Surely you need proof to believe.’ She didn’t mean to mock him but she was tired and scared, and she didn’t care about Drake’s disquiet. She grasped at her own faith, and it gave her comfort in this strange place, with these strange people.

‘Perhaps,’ Drake said softly. ‘The Inquisitor, have you seen—?’

Someone passed by the open door – a young boy bearing a tray of food and a steaming bowl. Drake glanced over his shoulder, then nudged the door closed.

‘I’m so tired,’ Holly said, leaning back against the wall. She let her eyelids droop and willed her muscles to relax, slumping down, feigning sleepiness when in fact she felt more awake than she had since arriving here through the breach. She wanted to be with Vic and Jonah, she wanted to know that her friends and family were still well, but most of all she wanted to be alone. And then she could decide what to do.

‘I want us to be friends,’ Drake said.

‘We are . . .’ she said, her voice slurring.
Leave me
, she thought. She lowered her head with every breath, and Drake came to her, easing her down onto the cot. His hands lingered on her shoulders, but she kept her
eyes closed.
He’s touching someone from another world
, she thought, realising only moments later that she felt the same.

Holly breathed deeply, concentrating on the fluid movement of the darkness behind her eyelids and wondering whether that was the true space between universes. Even when Drake left the room and closed the door she kept her eyes closed. She prayed into the uniform darkness, silent prayers that banished the gnawing loneliness inside her. She had never been embarrassed by her beliefs, even though there were many among her friends and colleagues who claimed not to understand them. Even that lovely old Welshman was a staunch atheist, and they’d had many long discussions about how she could maintain such faith while remaining a scientist.
Just because most things demand proof doesn’t mean that there’s something that never will
, she’d say, and Jonah would shake his head and take another sip of his whisky.