The Undertakers Gift (22 page)

The line crackled with interference and Jack lost most of what came then, but he guessed it was largely expletives. When she came back online, Swanson was still in midstream: ‘ . . . son of a bitch if you think. . .’

‘All right, can it.’

‘You’d better be on top of this soon, Jack!’ Her voice was trembling, and he guessed that Swanson was as scared as anybody.

‘Sure,’ he lied. ‘But I’ve gotta move fast.’

‘I can’t give you an escort, but I’ll try and get whatever cars we have to keep some routes free.’

‘It’s appreciated.’

‘Try and get onto the Pen-y-Lan road. It’s the clearest due to the roadworks.’

‘Great, thanks.’ Jack glanced out of the window, got his bearings, threw the SUV into a tight left-hand turn, bumping over a mini roundabout.

There was the briefest pause, and Jack could imagine Swanson sitting in the operations room at Police HQ, a hand to her brow, perspiring. Then the question: ‘Jack – what’s happening? Just tell me.’

Jack bit his lip and closed the call. He took a detour, longer than he had hoped because of the spreading devastation, and headed for the southbound roads. He was racing an expanding tide of destruction and losing. The traffic heading out of the centre of Cardiff had overcome the capacity of the roads and ground to a standstill. Jack was forced to thread his way through backstreets and rat runs, driving over central reservations and pavements and at one point barrelling down the wrong side of an empty dual carriageway. He had the SUV blue lights flashing but there were so many emergency vehicles around that they counted for little.

He sent the SUV straight over another roundabout, bouncing it until the shock absorbers began to protest a little too much. On the far side a minibus swerved in front of him and he stood on the breaks, the SUV tyres locking hard and dragging a black line of scorched rubber across the road and pavement. The minibus sounded its horn, its driver raising a fist at Jack, but he was already on his way.

Jack reduced speed as he approached a section of road between two rows of high street shops. The tarmac was buckled and split, water from a broken main spurting high into the air and drenching the men who were systematically breaking shop windows and stealing whatever they could lay their hands on. Jack gritted his teeth, filled with rage. Couldn’t these people see that the world was ending around them? What use was a plasma TV and a microwave going to be to them now? If they survived the next twenty-four hours, they would be looking for food to steal, fighting with their neighbours for a loaf of bread and a tin of beans.

Survival would belong to those who could fight. It was a chilling thought.

He had to carry on.

At the end of the street he pulled out into a clear area and increased speed. Someone hurled a brick at him and it bounced off the rear window. Jack shook his head in despair and headed for the centre of town. He put his foot down, pushing the SUV as fast as it would go. A policeman flashed past, shouting something, but he took no notice. Hopefully Kathy Swanson had got the message through and he was just waving the SUV on.

There were more people up ahead, civilians, signalling him to stop.

Jack hauled the steering wheel around and took the next turning. It was a narrow side street, not far from Taff Road. Not a great place to be, and certainly not on the brink of doom. Dark figures milled around the road up ahead. The narrow road was full of shadows, hemmed in on either side by tall buildings as the black clouds above. He turned on the SUV headlamps and the beams picked out a crouched, snarling figure in front.

Weevil.

They’d sensed the destruction above, felt the earthquake deep in their underground nests. Hungry and frightened, they had been forced to the surface.

Jack caught a glimpse of the bestial red eyes beneath the furrowed brows, the sharp, toxic fangs glinting in his headlights. He accelerated and the Weevil disappeared under the SUV with a heavy crunch. No time to stop now, and if any Weevil stumbled across a human being it would attack and kill.

There were more Weevils ahead. The nest must have been nearby, probably in the basement of one of the disused warehouses that littered the area. The Weevils snarled and spat at the SUV as it whipped past them, swerving in and out. He clipped one, spinning it away, and then hit another full on – for a few moments it clung to the radiator, sprawled across the SUV’s bonnet. It roared, angry little eyes fixing on Jack, but then it lost its grip, sliding down the bonnet leaving a trail of scratches from its claws, until it went under. The SUV bounced over it, but then the tyres suddenly lost traction, and Jack felt the vehicle spin around as he exited the road at the far end.

He wrestled with the wheel as the SUV slewed from side to side. The wheels screeched. Jack strained to bring it under control and as he did so he saw a woman straight ahead, caught square in his headlights. There was a look of sudden fear in her wide blue eyes that would stay with Jack for ever – the terrible certainty that four tons of Sports Utility Vehicle were about to flatten her.

With a yell, Jack tore the steering wheel to the left, sending the SUV into a sudden, neck-wrenching swerve. He was thrown against the door as the car tipped over on two wheels with a roar of protest. And then the vehicle was hurtling down a shallow embankment, smashing through a pair of parked cars and spinning out of control.

The windscreen shattered, exploding through the cabin and Jack ducked as the SUV ploughed sideways into a shop front with a screech of tearing metal and splintering wood.

The SUV rocked to a halt. Dazed, covered in broken glass, Jack opened the door and climbed out. He emerged onto the street, his vision blurred and his ears ringing. He could taste blood in his mouth.

Someone shouted at him. He looked up, focused and saw a woman. The same woman he’d nearly flattened seconds before. She was calling out to him, and behind her, lumbering along in its simian fashion, was a Weevil.

Jack felt for his Webley – it wasn’t in the holster.

The Weevil was almost on the woman now. It was growling, fangs bared, reaching out for her with curled talons. She was screaming and running for her life, fully aware of the danger.

Jack’s hand found the knife almost at the same time he remembered it, nestled safely in its protective sheath inside his coat pocket. It was the AI throwing-knife – its telepathic trintillium blade designed for moments like this. He drew back his hand and hurled the blade with all the forced he could muster. It only had to be in the right general direction – his thoughts would do the rest.

The steel flashed through the air, swerving past the woman to hit the Weevil square between the eyes with an audible thud. It straightened, mouth hanging open, the hilt protruding from its head. Then the Weevil fell backwards, like an axed tree, and lay dead in the middle of the road.

The woman let out a cry of relief. She turned to thank the stranger in the long coat – but he had already gone.

FORTY-NINE

Gwen Cooper knew the end was near. The ground shook beneath her, all around her was destruction and, above, the skies swirled menacingly. But she was still alive and so was Ianto, and at the moment that was all she could rely on.

She clung on to that thought and tried her best to blank out everything else: Rhys, friends, family, colleagues. Places and things she took for granted in her home city had to be shut out of her mind. She had to concentrate on the here and now, on herself and Ianto – as far as she could tell, the last two living people for miles around. The police sirens were distant now, whispers only, barely audible over the constant background rumble of the quake.

An amber light suffused the entire area. Above them, the inky green sky bulged and the swirling fire continued to burn inside. Lightning crackled down in flickering lines, drawing sparks wherever it touched. The air tasted of electricity, a sharp, tingling in the mouth that set the nerves on edge.

‘What’s happening. . .?’ Ianto’s voice was barely a croak.

Gwen looked at him and shook her head, lost for words.

Ianto lay propped up against a huge piece of masonry that had sunk halfway into the crypt below. His skin was white but he was hot, fevered, his skin running with sweat. His eyes rolled beneath flickering eyelids.

The wounds on his chest and stomach looked red and sore, peppered with wriggling Xilobytes. Gwen gritted her teeth, reached for the largest and pulled it off. Ianto gave a little groan as the thing came free, its tiny jaws tearing another little piece of flesh away. Grimacing, Gwen threw the insect on the ground and flattened it with a loose brick she had chosen for the purpose. Its underside was sticky with pulped remains.

Ianto’s eyes opened and he looked down at his chest. ‘What. . . what are you doing?’

‘Don’t look,’ Gwen advised him. ‘Close your eyes and rest.’

‘What. . . what are they?’ He frowned, trying to focus on his sores. Gradually realisation dawned. ‘What the hell. . .?’

‘Lie still,’ Gwen said tersely. She had to be firm, confident, show no sign of the bubbling revulsion that was building inside her.

‘What are they?’ Ianto’s breathing began ragged as he began to squirm with panic, his eyes fixated on the insects.

‘Xilobyte assassins,’ Gwen told him. ‘Meant for Jack. They missed.’

Ianto’s head lolled back and he moaned out loud. ‘Get them off me!’

‘I’m trying to. Now lie still.’

She picked another one off and squashed it with the brick.

‘How. . . how many more are there?’ Ianto asked.

‘I can’t tell. A few.’ Gwen bit her lip. Every time she pulled one free, she glimpsed another, half-immersed in Ianto’s blood. She hadn’t allowed herself to try and count them; instead she was focusing on dealing with just one at a time. Eventually, she knew, she would reach the end. And that would be good for Ianto – but what then?
Then
she would have to face up to what was happening around them. And at the moment she could not even allow herself to consider that prospect for a single second.

‘Where’s Jack?’

‘He’s. . . gone.’

‘Gone where?’

‘For help.’ She didn’t know if this was true or not, but what else could she say? And when she glanced into Ianto’s eyes, she knew that he doubted her. What help could there possibly be now?

‘Has. . . has he run away?’

She shook her head. ‘Of course not. Jack wouldn’t do that.’

But now she wouldn’t even look at Ianto’s eyes, in case he saw the doubt in hers. What did they really know about Jack Harkness? He was full of secrets, a lifetime of changes and escapes and adventures. Who was to say that he wasn’t going to escape from this by the skin of his teeth? That wrist-strap of his – they had seen it used as a personal teleport once, in the direst of emergencies. He’d left them on their own then, to defend the Hub against the worst of enemies. But what now?

Gwen knew that Ianto was thinking the same things. She stole a glance at him, and his eyes met hers. They were red and running with tears.

‘Do you think he’d leave us?’ she heard herself ask. ‘Like this?’

He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Me neither. So let’s get to work.’ She yanked another Xilobyte off his chest and killed it.

They heard a dog barking close by and the sudden noise startled them both. They hadn’t realised how quiet everything had become. It was almost as if the whole world was holding its breath; there was the low, background rumble from deep beneath them and the occasional crackle of lightning, but apart from that a weird silence had slowly built up.

The dog sounded agitated, almost frightened, and no wonder. Something like this would cause panic among animals used to the natural order of things. They had no knowledge of time rifts or temporal fusion bombs.

The barking increased, became a frightened yelp, and was suddenly overtaken by a throaty, crunching growl and then silence.

Gwen and Ianto looked at each other.

‘That didn’t sound good,’ Gwen whispered.

‘Look!’ Ianto jerked a hand up, pointing. ‘What’s that?’

Gwen looked and saw a hideous creature crawling over the ruins of the Black House on short, powerful legs. It was reptilian as far as she could tell, shaped like a giant toad and with a wide mouth full of something covered in ragged fur. The toad creature opened its jaws and dropped the dead animal on the ground. With a start, Gwen realised it was an Alsatian dog – its black and tan fur stained with blood. Red saliva drooled from the toad-creature’s jagged fangs and its little black eyes blinked evilly at her over the corpse.

‘Just when you think things can’t get any worse,’ she muttered.

‘It’s coming for us,’ Ianto said. He tried to push back with his legs, but in truth he was too weak and there was nowhere to go.

‘It’s a pitbullfrog,’ Gwen realised. ‘Jack said there was one still loose in the city.’

‘And we’ve found it,’ Ianto said. ‘Aren’t we the lucky ones.’

‘Actually. . . I think it’s found us.’

And with an angry, blood-curdling snarl the pitbullfrog leapt towards them.

FIFTY

The motorbike was a 250cc trail bike with high suspension and a well-worn saddle. Jack had found it lying on its side, abandoned by its rider. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Jack had used his wrist-strap manipulator to hot-wire the bike and was now riding it hard towards Roald Dahl Plass.