Into the Fire (30 page)

Another couple of days ground slowly by. It was starting to drive me crazy, and to make matters worse, just as I feared, the others accidentally came out with stuff that made me wonder just how much faith they had in me and my plan. Delilah talked about how Lena wouldn't blame me if I couldn't get into Infinity; Hanna put her arms around me and started to cry, saying it was for no reason, but it didn't exactly put my mind at ease. In fact, Jimmy and his satellite became a bit of a haven from all their well-intentioned comforting, and as soon as I got the idea that was where the conversation was going, I would head off down to see him, grateful for the fact that he almost always ignored me.

The little guy was still utterly obsessed with that satellite in the way that only Jimmy could be: trying to make sense of the bit he had and constantly speculating on the bit he didn't. The only times we saw him were at meals and bedtime. Which was why, helping
Delilah re-bag the food where the rats had got in, I was surprised to see him bustling up toward us.

Gordie and Hanna were playing games on the mini-screen as usual, but he snatched it from them.

“Hey!” Gordie protested.

“What's going on?” I asked.

Jimmy didn't answer, just started punching in information, his fingers moving at astonishing speed for an old guy. Mind you, I was a little surprised at what he eventually came out with.

“I been peeing down there.”

“Sorry?”

“I been peeing down there!” he repeated.

“Oh,” I said. I mean, okay, it wasn't such a big deal; maybe I had dug the new latrines a little too far away.

“How could I be so stupid?” Jimmy cried, returning his attention to the mini-screen, and I glanced at the others, wondering if anyone was making any more sense of this than I was.

“
Urine!
” Jimmy cried, as if it should mean something. “Ammonia!”

I didn't say anything then but actually, it did remind me that Lena had said something similar.

“They really did put those things up there on the cheap,” he added.

“D'you understand any of this?” Delilah asked, turning to me.

“Not a word.”

“The satellites were solar-powered, but they always had a backup, an alternative source of fuel,” Jimmy told us. “D'you know what hydrazine is?”

All four of us looked from one to the other, but Jimmy didn't bother waiting for a reply.

“Had a lot of uses: first as a rocket fuel last century, during the Second World War, later for space exploration. It's highly toxic; caused a lot of problems. On more than one occasion, craft falling back to Earth had to be blown out of the sky rather than risk contamination. When all those other countries, tinpot and otherwise, joined in the arms race by building their own long-range ballistic
missiles, a lot of them used cheap hydrazine derivatives—I mean, who cares if their missiles are polluting the atmosphere when their job is to cause as much damage as they can?”

“Is that what the punishment satellites used?” I asked.

“Something similar . . . This one,” he said, gesturing toward his workshop, “probably lost the majority of its solar-power capacity at launch and had to switch over to alternative fuel almost immediately. Which is why it didn't catch fire—or not for long.”

There was a pause and Gordie turned to Hanna, his expression about as interested as when Jimmy gave them that lecture about the satellites before—but I knew there was more to come.

“Thing is,” he continued, “the way those satellites were put together, the systems they used, most of the backup would've slowly leaked out over the years.”

For several moments we sat there wishing he'd just come out and say it and not tease it out of us as usual, hoping someone might put us out of our misery. I should've known who it'd be.

“So those people on the beach, the ones we keep running into—the ‘zombies,'” Hanna said. “They're not sick, they're poisoned?”

Jimmy made this face. “Maybe.”

“Oh my God!” Delilah croaked.

“I don't know what they mixed that stuff with, but not only is it toxic as hell, it's got some kind of aggressive binding agent, so instead of evaporating the way it should, it ends up bonding with everything—concrete, stone, steel,
everything
—which is why this whole damn City is burning, and why the fires go on for so long and keep exploding.”

Again there was a pause as possibilities reared up before us like growlers outta the ground.

“Have we been poisoned?” Gordie asked, suddenly looking a lot more attentive.

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe. To some degree. But I reckon there's a kind of micro-climate out on the Island—we always got more extremes of weather, and the wind off the ocean—hopefully that protected us from the worst of it.”

“I never felt well over there,” Delilah grumbled.

She was right: illness had been a way of life. We used to blame the garbage, and probably most of it was—but not all, apparently. Still my mind raced on, careering through this new information, trying to link it with the old: was that why they kidnapped Lena, 'cuz she'd spent all those years underground, in a completely unpolluted environment? I guess that would make her pretty special, but for what purpose exactly?

“So the satellites weren't
protecting
people,” Hanna commented, “they were killing them.”

But Jimmy's thoughts were already elsewhere and, without another word he turned and hurried back toward his work area, feeding information into the screen as he went.

For several moments there was silence, then Delilah sighed. “That man never brings good news.”

In a way, she was right, but the little guy could only bring what was available. I also realized something else, that I should've had some idea about before: that was why Infinity were so intent on killing him, they were scared of what information he'd picked up when he broke into their system and what he might add it to now he was back on the Mainland. That he'd tell everyone the satellites hadn't been “judgment from on high,” but a plague, and that, ironically, the person being constantly described as “the biggest ever threat to society” was, in fact, its savior.

For the rest of that day my mind was in turmoil. I had no idea if what Jimmy'd said affected my plans to rescue Lena in any way, but for sure I was left with this uneasy feeling that the situation had erupted out of control yet again.

I didn't bother to sit out and watch the street that night. All my confidence had been ripped right out of me. In fact, as embarrassed as I am to admit it, I felt so beaten, so pessimistic about what I was trying to do, that just for a moment it went through my head that maybe it'd be best for everyone if I didn't wake up in the morning.

Which, as it turned out, was a whole lot closer to the truth than I ever could've imagined.

“Clancy! Clancy!”

Someone was calling to me from out of the darkness. Took me a while to realize it was Gordie.

“Yeah?” I said, struggling up onto one elbow, but he didn't need to say any more. I could hear it, too: the sound of distant beating and shouting, the slight thrum of a Dragonfly over the City—it was another Clean-up.

I didn't hesitate for one second, jumping to my feet so quickly I had a bit of a dizzy spell and had to stand still for a moment. No sooner had it subsided than I was ready to go.

“Are we still doing it?” Delilah asked.

“I am,” I said, and there was a brief pause, as if everyone was taking that in.

“Got everything?” Jimmy asked.

“Yep,” I said, checking my pockets, feeling the extra bulk.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“We'll be at the fence.”

I went around and thanked everyone, hugging them, then made my way out into the dark and smoky night.

Once I emerged from the dense vegetation of the shelter I could really feel the atmosphere, as if something tangible was rising up over the City, hanging there like a perfect storm about to break. I clambered across the rubble to the street, trying to work out which direction to take: sound can move in odd ways around a city, particularly with so much smoke. At first I started to walk up toward the Square, but then changed my mind, taking the next turning, heading over in the general direction of the ocean.

Immediately that sound became more specific, more frightening, as it echoed along the street toward me in onrushing shock waves. Over and over that familiar
thump-thump-thump! thump-thump-thump!
was getting louder with every step, more threatening.

I picked up my pace. I needed to work out exactly how I was going to do this before they arrived, and by the sound of it, they weren't that far away—and yet the street wasn't as busy as I'd've expected. I checked the other side, and glancing up an alleyway saw the crowds and panic I'd been anticipating—I'd turned too soon.

I crossed over and headed up the alleyway, at that precise moment a running mob coming bursting around the corner. I tried
to dodge and weave my way through them, but there were far too many and slowly they pushed me back until I was pinned up against a wall. I fought my way out, getting jolted and shoved, punched and screamed at, but in the end I somehow managed to get through.

As I got to the junction, I saw a large group of Specials marching toward me, intent on blocking off the alleyways so no one else could escape. I slipped around the corner just in time, finding the nearest doorway, keeping as far back in the shadows as I could until they'd passed and I could merge into the crowds unchallenged.

I got a real shock when I took my first look down that smoky, chaotic street. Those nights they swept down our way, demolishing the church and everything else, I don't reckon they'd rounded up more than a couple of hundred people—here there were more like thousands: old people, desperately trying to run, to force their stiff old arthritic joints to function; kids darting from side to side like mice looking for a hole to escape; even some of the zombie-sick were getting swept along with it, as if their feet weren't touching the ground, that they simply didn't have the strength to resist. All of them had been flushed out of their hiding places: abandoned buildings, lean-tos, storm drains, anywhere they'd mistakenly thought they were safe. And behind them, like some huge cacophonous wall rearing up toward us, came the now-familiar shouting and beating, the clanking of heavy machinery, the piercing spotlights of the Dragonflies.

Now that I'd joined the flow and knew which way it was being driven, I had to somehow get to the front of it. The only trouble was, the amount of panic, the surging and swirling hysteria, it was damn near impossible. I tried to speed up, to even run a little, but within moments there'd be some kind of obstruction and people would lose it, screaming at each other, not out of anger but just pure, blind terror. All possible exits were closed off, side streets, lanes and alleyways, doors into functioning buildings, anywhere where they thought we might be able to escape.

Yet somehow I managed to slip and slide my way through, using a minimum of force, trying to ensure my progress was as uneventful
as possible, acutely aware of the package I was carrying, that if it got broken, this whole thing would be off.

I got shouted at a couple of times by people taking exception to me pushing past, but I just apologized as best I could and kept going. Behind me I could hear the growing thunder: the roar of the engines, the screaming chorus of the hunters, even the occasional loosed gunshot.

I'd known it would be an ordeal, a further vent for madness, but there was something else, too. I couldn't exactly say how, but in some way it felt different. Maybe it was the sheer scale of it, the unpredictable nature of such a huge crowd, or perhaps it had something to do with the uncertainty, that no one had the faintest idea where we were being driven. For sure I couldn't think of a square or park in the vicinity big enough to hold so many people, and if it wasn't going to be that, what the hell was it?

I've never been the greatest sports fan in the world. I used to watch a little on the screen, but the only sporting event I ever actually attended was the track with Mr. Meltoni. For sure, I had no idea where any of the City's major sporting venues were. If I had, maybe I would've had second thoughts about what I was planning on doing.

I kept checking the signs to see if there was any indication of an upcoming open area, but it still took me a while to realize that the only destination being regularly signposted was the stadium. Even then I didn't get it, not until it came into view, all brightly lit and glowing, and I heard the muttering of those around me. They started to cry out in protest, trying to turn around and push back the other way, knowing it could only mean something unforgivable. For a few moments they held their ground, refusing to go any further, but the Specials pushed up hard behind us, using their weapons—clubs, electro-shields, shock-gloves—and after a bit of a struggle and several people getting zapped and writhing on the ground, the protest disintegrated and we were herded forward again, into the heart of the stadium through a long, cold tunnel.

We stumbled out onto the floodlit grass, taking a few dazed and blinded steps forward, then stopped and gaped all around, realizing
we weren't alone. The upper stands were filled with hundreds, maybe even thousands of shooters, all sitting there surrounded by the remains of their fast food and beer—or maybe sushi and champagne—weapons in their hands, eagerly peering down on us.

The Specials stopped their beating and a line of them quickly took up position around the periphery of the field while others blocked the exits. Two Dragonflies hovered overhead, their spotlights shining down like finely stretched luminous webs. I was so shocked for a moment all I could do was stare. This wasn't what I'd imagined, not what I'd had in mind at all. I'd anticipated a square or park, somewhere where there would be nooks and crannies, bushes, places where I could hide if necessary. That would've been dangerous enough—but out there, brightly lit and totally exposed, with nowhere to hide? It was like some huge mass firing squad—which, I guess, was exactly what it was.

All around me I could see others coming to the same conclusion, the disbelief on their faces being replaced by terror. There were cries of helplessness as they frantically looked left and right for a way to escape.

I don't know what set me running—there was nowhere to go. I could see shooters studying prospective targets through their sights, going from person to person, wondering who to take down first. One young woman in particular was smirking at me from the front row as if to say, “I'm gonna get that big old bastard before anyone else does” and I just turned and fled, dodging around those also running, pushing aside those too scared to move.

From what I'd seen of Clean-ups, no one was that much of a shot. I figured if I ran to the center of the field, maybe—and I do mean
maybe
—given how inept they were, I just might manage to stay alive.

Some really hap-hap-happy announcer welcomed everyone to the “main event of the evening” and started geeing them up, saying it was time to, “Take out the trash!” Someone started shooting even before he finished—'course, he remonstrated with them, told them to wait for his say-so, but only in a jokey way. And finally, with his
voice rising to a deranged pitch, those around me screaming in terror, the shooters baying in excitement, he called out to everyone to, “
Clean up this City!
”

It was like the whole world exploded. Gunshots, laser burns, jeering and howling, insanity on a scale you simply couldn't imagine. I saw the old, the young, the sick, person after person, tumbling to the ground, bodies mounting up, falling on top of each other. Many were so badly wounded they were no longer recognizable as human, but just slashed and punctured weeping chunks of meat and bone. How long it went on, I dunno—I guess it wasn't any more than a minute or two, but it felt like the most godless of infinities.

It wasn't until the shooters stopped—to reload maybe, or to take another gulp of their drinks—that I heard the screaming. It was the most chilling sound that's ever entered my head—a grating collision of terror and pain, and in that moment, realizing that everyone here was gonna be cut down, I knew my time had come: that it was now or never.

I pretended to panic, to run blindly, dodging people, leaping over bodies, then suddenly toppled over as if I'd been hit and hadn't immediately appreciated it. Colliding with the grass face-first, smelling the moistness of the watered soil, hoping I'd died a convincing death.

I didn't make the slightest movement, just in case someone had zoomed in to make sure. I was just another lifeless corpse—no more, no less. However, after a few moments, my hand began to stir and slowly inch its way down inside my parka until I eventually located the thick plastic bag I'd dug out of the garbage, its precious contents slopping around inside. I slowly tugged it out and placed it under my forehead, then began to push down with all my might, straining my neck muscles, for a tense moment fearing the plastic might be too strong. Yet finally it broke, exploding all over me, drenching me in a mixture of water and my own blood that I'd drained from my self-inflicted wound.

It covered my face, my hair, my neck and chest, and I hoped the fact that it was real blood, that it was verifiably mine, meant there'd be no suspicion of my “fatal” wound.

But that wasn't it, of course. That was the easy bit. I slowly raised my head, just the merest fraction, taking in the view around me, knowing it might well be my last glimpse of this Earth.

If it was, then it sure wasn't the one I would've chosen. You've never seen such carnage, nor heard such a terrible noise. The smoke was so thick now I couldn't see most of the people in the stands—which, I guessed, was the reason why a lot of them had stopped shooting. Nevertheless, there was still more than enough going on for anyone to worry about who was dead and who wasn't. Again I kept my movements slow and easy as I reached down into my other inside pocket and located my second precious package, thanking God when I drew it out and saw it hadn't been broken. With all the jostling and fighting, the heavy fall I took pretending to be shot, it wouldn't've surprised me.

I carefully unwrapped it, slightly rolled to one side, priming the syringe as I did so, then stuck it into my stomach and injected myself. I had just enough time to remember to throw it clear of my body before its contents went to work, and then everything around me—the floodlit stadium, the shooters, the screaming of victims, and finally my consciousness itself—faded into nothing.

I once took a bullet for Mr. Meltoni's wife. I mean, you don't think about these things, you don't have time. Either you do or you don't, and I did. At the time, the business was going through a bit of an unsettled period, loyalties had got a little blurred and Mr. Meltoni must've been concerned, 'cuz he insisted on me accompanying his wife wherever she went. Which, in her case, was pretty much always shopping.

It was a duty I hated every bit as much as walking that damn dog of hers, Mitzi, though what I hated the most was when she insisted on taking it with us, so I had to put up with a double helping of humiliation. She used to make us wait outside—I mean, talk about embarrassing: standing there with this buttoned and bowed ball of expensively coiffeured fluff sitting on my shoes. And I swear that stupid pooch knew how uncomfortable I was, 'cuz she always added
to it by pooping in the doorway of Valentino or Chanel or wherever it was. Or maybe she was just making a statement. Maybe she hated shopping as much as I did and wanted everyone to know. Either way, for a big guy to have to clear up after that little thing while all those fur-coated ladies pushed by with their noses in the air was well up on the shaming scale.

I remember, we were just starting to suffer winter and the first fall of snow was thick on the ground. The sidewalks hadn't been properly cleared and people were slipping and sliding all over. These two guys must've been watching us for a while 'cuz they obviously knew her routine pretty well. Thursday was Gucci day and they were waiting for her just down the street. As it happened, Mrs. Meltoni had just called Mitzi and me in to give our opinion on a dress, which was another of my duties I hated. What could I say? “It's nice? It's okay?” And as for what I thought the dog's opinion was—how the hell did I know? I mean, she was a beautiful young woman. Mr. Meltoni took good care of her. It was up to him to pass the compliments.

Not that it mattered what I said, in fact, I reckon she only asked my opinion so she could ignore it. Anyways, thank the Lord, when we left that shop my arms were empty for once—well, apart from Mitzi.

I saw these two guys approaching as we made our way toward the limo. They were both carrying packages, but it was the way they were carrying them—straight out in front of them—that made me suspicious. I got this really bad feeling, a whole tidal wave of it, and suddenly had one of those moments where you become a spectator of your own actions.

I just let Mitzi fall to the ground and leaped to shield Mrs. Meltoni. At that precise moment, both guys' parcels were blown away by the guns they had inside them.

I took one in the shoulder—well, more to the back really—as the two guys immediately turned to run back to their vehicle, but one of them slipped, and grabbing his companion, took them both down.

They were just lying there, floundering around, trying to get up, with me slumped a few feet away bleeding heavily and Mrs. Meltoni
screaming out at the top of her voice. God knows what would've happened next; I guess they'd've got to their feet eventually. But to my astonishment—maybe 'cuz she was so indignant at being so unceremoniously dropped—Mitzi went on the attack, yapping furiously and leaping at the gunmen, getting her teeth into one guy's ear. It was mayhem, old-time variety, though thankfully, a patrol car just happened to be passing by.