Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #226 (7 page)

My feeble attempt at laughter comes out as a wheeze, startling him. “I've done it before, but you don't have to worry about looking like this.” I glance past him to his girlfriend, who quickly lowers her eyes. This is probably something that you and I would have done—volunteering together like good little Samaritans. “The ash is what's dangerous—full of Strontium and Caesium. Don't get it near your nose or mouth, or on your skin. And be careful taking your suit off afterwards. But even if you went in stark naked you wouldn't develop acute symptoms like this. Not now. I got fucked by the initial fallout.” I grin at him. “Hell—if you believe the Hibs there's hardly any background radiation at all anymore."

He nods, relieved. “Oh. Okay. Cheers, mate."

He scuttles back to his girlfriend, leaving me to my seclusion. I finish zipping up, reach for a dust mask, a hardhat.

The dressing room seems very quiet now.

I do not find much funny these days, but I find this funny—and I think you would, too. Our armoured bus is packed with sweaty, nervous people. Half of them are squeezed shoulder to shoulder, barely able to breathe, but there's a free seat on either side of the Asian. Nobody wants to sit by him—as if he could have a nuke hidden underneath his protective suit. As if he might have returned to finish the job. As if any more damage could be done to this city.

As if.

We totter and sway like cattle as the bus rumbles over potholes and debris. The vibrations send spikes of pain up my spine, and set my skull ringing. I don't have the patience or stamina to stand; I squeeze over and slump into one of the spare seats next to him, near the front. Travelling in convoy is safer, so there are vehicles both ahead of and behind us. I figure we're about three miles from the epicentre, trundling east on the a3212, with the cloudy Thames on our right, and Ranelagh Gardens to the left. The hedges are scorched and leafless, the sloping lawns a monotonous brown. Unmoved, I watch the deadened landscape scroll by beneath a sky the colour of curdled cream.

The Asian shifts in his seat, angles his head towards me.

He asks, “You think that's all from the blast, or the fallout?"

Good question, but not one I can answer. I shrug instead.

Across from us, a burly brummie is talking to his buddy—in a way that is meant to draw attention to himself. I catch the terms ‘air burst’ and ‘surface burst', and realize he is explaining why the local fallout was much worse here than in Hiroshima.

"Them Yanks detonated Little Boy half a mile up,” he says. “It burned clean. But surface bursts burn dirty, yeah? Kicks up a cloud, and all that radioactive shite fuses with them particles, then comes raining back down. That's why we got so fucked, like."

His friend nods along, lapping it up. For a layman's explanation, it's pretty accurate. While those nearby listen in, he goes on to describe the most impressive part of the attack: how they managed to combine a suitcase nuke with a dirty bomb, destroying half the city and making the rest uninhabitable—chock full of radioactive nuclei that will remain hazardous for at least thirty years. Or so they say. Nobody really knows what to believe these days.

At the front, the bus driver's radio crackles once and spits static. Then a voice comes on. It's barely audible. Nobody else bothers to listen, but I do. There is an ‘obstruction’ near Westminster, and another convoy has run into some ‘problems'. That's doublespeak for a roadblock, and an organized attack. The Resident People's Army, probably—or one of the other Hib groups. The bus driver reaches for his mouthpiece, thumbs the button on the side.

"Roger that. What do you suggest, over?"

"Suggest taking alternate route, via Victoria Station. Over."

I look at the Asian. His face tells me that he, too, has overheard. “Hibs?” he says.

I grunt. Just because half the city was deemed uninhabitable didn't stop people from wanting to live in it. The compulsory government evacuation was both chaotic and heavy-handed. Uncooperative residents got rounded up by force. There were riots, and more than a few deaths. Nobody really knows how many stayed behind, clinging to their old lives. But thanks to the government's ongoing efforts to clear them out, not all of them are friendly.

We're coming into the city proper, now. On my first session, I envisioned the entire landscape as a blackened crater, a scorched and unrecognizable wasteland. Buildings flattened for miles around. Britain's version of Hiroshima. But most of the buildings in Japan were timber-frame structures. Those that didn't get blown down by the bomb were incinerated in the ensuing fireball. Brick and stone is more durable, less flammable. Here, outside the half mile radius of ground zero, the architecture has held up surprisingly well.

Not that it's exactly untouched.

In the cracked facades lining Regent Street, every single windowpane is empty—the glass shattered by the initial shockwave. A carpet of soot and ash coats the sidewalks, the gutters. Some of the buildings have burned, leaving framework like fried pieces of Meccano. It almost looks like a war zone, but even in a war zone there would be signs of life. It is more like entering the ruin of an ancient civilization. Fossilized in cinder. Pavement cracked and buckling. Lamp posts sagging like melted candles. Slag heaps of cars. An unreality.

Then, rounding a corner, we are confronted with the truth. The brummie gasps. I don't know what he's seen. The hollow, burnt face of Big Ben? Nelson's melted statue, rising like a swamp-creature from the bronze ooze of its base? The broken columns of the National Gallery? Maybe all of those. The woman across from me is moved to tears, but I can't bring myself to feel anything. When it came to London, I always took my cue from you—and you never liked this city much. You studied here out of necessity, but preferred painting the lonely hilltops and desolate seasides of Wales. I think you would appreciate it more, now. Part of me does. I want to explore it with you, wander around these ruins like we did in Pompeii. It was spring and overcast; there were hardly any other tourists. We owned that place, ruled it as king and queen.

Two of the buses turn off here, to different destinations. We, the last, head further towards the epicentre. The brummie clears his throat, nudges his friend. “Musta took bloody ages to clear this route."

"Aye. Weeks."

I nod to myself. Three, actually. I did six shifts in that time. Working my way towards this. Towards you.

I catch a glimpse of the wrought iron-fence, mangled by heat and the concussion blast. Then the south courtyard is coming into view, and the museum itself. A blackened fortress. Sturdy and sprawling. Looking all the more impressive for the damage sustained by nearby buildings. Here, about two miles from ground zero, the general destruction is more apparent: roofs caved-in, walls collapsed, entire structures reduced to rubble. Our bus lurches to a halt in front of the south gate, on Great Russell Street, next to the remains of a Starbucks and a derelict pub. The metal plaque above the door still reads selling real ales since 1868.

Our team leader—a tall, spindly woman with a nasal voice—stands up at the front, and tells us to check our dust masks before getting off the bus. Next we file out one by one, like spacemen stepping onto an alien planet. The driver opens the luggage compartment, hands out flashlights, salvage sacks, and item tags. Last comes the escort charged with our protection: a full squad of soldiers in grey camouflage. They shepherd us across the courtyard, then instruct us to wait on the steps while they secure the area. Most of the newbies huddle together, glancing at the surrounding terrain as if every object might hide swarms of Hibs intent on taking hostages. Apparently they're using people as bargaining chips now, to push for their right to abode. I sit with my back against one of the massive columns lining the facade—the base as wide around as the Redwoods you and I visited in California. Each breath pushes my dust mask out, and in, and out—like a pulsing gill.

As soon as we're given the all clear, the team leader divides us into groups. I'm put with the brummies and my Asian friend—who turns out to be our section guide. That figures. He's got the jaded look of somebody who's done this before.

"I'm Riaz,” he tells us. “The one you listen to. The one with the radio.” He holds it up in demonstration. “The main thing is to stick together. Don't wander off. That's for your own safety. We'll be working in rooms 68 and 70..."

This is all routine. Normally I wouldn't pay attention—just follow orders and accept my penance. But today's different. I listen carefully, not only to Riaz but to the other section guides, making a mental note regarding their locations. For the most part, it seems like our efforts will be concentrated on level 3, in rooms overlooking the Great Court. It's not the best-case scenario, but it could be worse. The trick will be in trying to slip away unnoticed.

"Bring your group back here in four hours,” our team leader tells Riaz and the other guides, just before we disperse. “If anything comes up, raise me on the radio."

Aside from a guide, each section is assigned a squaddie. Ours is a weary youth who looks like he's nursing a modest hangover. He brings up the rear, yawning and cradling his assault rifle as we mount the wide stone steps. The front doors were destroyed, of course. A clean-up crew has already cleared a path for us, removing the frame and other obstructions. Inside, people turn on their flashlights. Pale circles flit like sprites across the walls, revealing the strangeness of scorched stone. A fine carpet of grey ash covers the marble floor, the welcome desk, the carved Roman busts that stand sentry in the four corners of the foyer. It reminds me of dirty snow back home. Winter has fallen on the British empire.

"Just a minute,” Riaz tells us.

We wait while he gets out his map, studies it by flashlight.

"Room 68 is up here,” I say, pointing to the south stairs.

He looks at me, curious, then nods—and I immediately regret drawing attention to myself. I keep my head down as we plod up the staircase, our footsteps muffled by ash.

Riaz falls in step beside me.

"You know your way around the place,” he says.

I grunt. Noncommittal. The last thing I need right now is a friend.

At the top of the stairs we can see again, thanks to a series of collapsed skylights. The other volunteer groups continue further on, but the rooms we've been assigned are near the landing, which is lucky. At one time they contained displays on Greek and Roman life. Now it's hard to tell what they contain. Shattered glass. Rubble. The remnants of artefacts. I spot a bronze spear tip poking out from amidst the ash.

While the squaddie takes up position near the door, Riaz gathers us in a huddle, briefs us on our task. “We're here to salvage what we can,” he says, in a well-rehearsed and rational tone. “Let's make sure we don't do more damage in the process. If you find anything of value, tag and bag it. Some items will be too heavy, delicate, or unwieldy. Mark those on your maps for expert removal. If you're unsure about anything, just ask me."

In reality, most of the delicate material has been destroyed—either by the heat or the concussion blast that followed. Parchment and tapestries simply vaporised. Pottery and ceramics didn't fare much better. The first display case I examine—shattered like all the others—has a nameplate that reads: grecian urn. I spend a quarter of an hour sorting through ash and soot, picking out pottery fragments, which I dutifully bag, label, and place in my sack. It's simple, mindless work, which gives me plenty of time to plan my route. The east wing is out—apparently it's partially collapsed—and the Great Court is too exposed. That leaves the west stairs. I could walk directly to them from here, if the intervening rooms weren't filled with volunteers. As things stand, I'll have to try the lower levels.

Pretending to scour the floor for remnant shards, I creep towards the edge of the room, then glance around. Right now Riaz is in the next gallery, examining a brass shield with the brummies—probably trying to decide if it can be removed, or if it should be noted as a ‘heavy object’ and left for later pick-up. Our squaddie is standing with his back to us, watching the entrance. Nobody seems to be paying me any attention. Still maintaining my charade of industrious worker, I casually wander through the archway into the adjacent corridor, then cut to the right and hurry back the way we came.

By the time I reach the ground floor my breathing is ragged, and my skeleton legs are rattling with fatigue—I don't have the strength to rush around like this. Through the front entrance, I can see the ashen courtyard and bus in the distance, guarded by a pair of soldiers. I skirt the doorway, moving past the cloakroom and through what was once a souvenir shop of some kind, into the lower west wing.

The rooms here are longer and narrower than the ones in which we're working. The marble floors are similarly dusted with soot, but there are no ceramics, no pieces of pottery to puzzle over. Instead there are various sarcophagi, up-ended and overturned. Whatever mummies once inhabited them were incinerated, but some of the cases are still intact, albeit seared, cracked, blistered. Empty shells. Human husks. On most the unique Egyptian designs are still visible: folded arms, abstract facial features, a horseshoe of sculpted hair.

Then I stop, because I've heard something. The crunch of glass. Not loud, but distinctive. I press myself flat in the dust, half-shielded by the remains of a display case, and strain to hear. There. Again. From the next room. Risking a glance, I see movement in the shadows. Two figures, spread about five feet apart, prowl past in a half-crouch. They're armed, but they're not our soldiers. One seems to gesture—making a hand signal of some sort—and then they're gone, heading in the direction of the west stairs.

Fuck.

I count to thirty, still listening, before I stand up and retrace my route. The west stairs, obviously, are out. That leaves the north wing. My last chance. Yet as I come back into the foyer, I hesitate. The others should be warned. I don't have the energy to climb to the third floor, but I do my best—slogging my way up the first flight, feeling the burn in my thighs and calves. My dust mask is damp with sweat, making it harder to breathe.