Quake (40 page)

‘What you doing?’ said Ravioli, goatee beard making his tapered face look quite evil in the gloom.

Freddy shrugged a little, spade loose in one hand.

‘Is that a fucking
grave?’
spat Worzel, round face, bushy eyebrows and thick black beard glistening in the murk.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this - worse than the time you swallowed that mescal worm and I had to take you to the hospital when the alcohol-infused grub burnt away part of your lip! Hey, and what’s that parcel wrapped up there?’

They moved forward, curious.

Again, Freddy backed away - and in a fit of sudden panic, dropped his spade and ran for it. He sprinted across the moors, stumbling across the heather in the darkness, heavy rain obscuring his vision, blind panic filling his soul with a need to get away. He ran and ran, pushing himself to levels of exertion that he had never realised he could reach. Then, suddenly, he splashed to a halt, panting, eyes scanning nervously as he spun around - twice - in circles.

Where am I?

Shit.

Where’s the car?

Bitch!

He calmed his breathing, and listened to see if the two men were pursuing him. He whirled in the gloom, twitchy, nervous, mind filled with leaping shadows.

And he could sense—

Sense something there.

Freddy stared as hard as he could into the darkness. He knew that the night could play tricks on you, and places like the moors were renowned for being spooky in the dark. He had been in the habit of coming up here with Charlotte a few years earlier, before they had their own place - the moors had been a good place for covert sex. But many times, even during their soaring passion and Charlotte’s moans for a new toaster, vacuum cleaner or tropical holiday, the light could move in such a way, or the wind moan through the oppressive darkness and you could believe that a knife-wielding maniac was only a few feet away.

How fucking ironic, he mused bitterly ... as something large and black and moving faster than thought slammed into him. He caught a glimpse of bright gleaming copper and then the pain screamed through him. He gagged and choked on his own blood as a fist like a sword tore open his chest. The dark heather was so cool on his face - it smelled fresh, like that summer’s day when he had first brought Charlotte up to this romantic desolate haven ...

Worzel knelt by the package and prodded it gingerly. He glanced up at Ravioli who was staring - a bit aghast, mouth open and nose wrinkled in distaste.

‘Open it,’ growled Ravioli.

Worzel scowled. ‘I ain’t fucking opening it. It might be a body or something.’

‘What, the body of a midge?’

‘You mean midget.’

‘Whatever. Go on, it won’t bite you. If it
is
a body then it’s obviously dead. But it’ll just be a porn stash or something.

‘There’s nothing wrong with porn!’

‘I never said there was.’

There was a pause for thought. ‘So why
bury
it?’

‘I don’t fucking know. Are you going to open it or what? Or are you just going to start crying about being the most unpopular man at the party again - just because you have to drink a half-pint of tequila? Like a big pussy?’

‘At least I haven’t got a ginger fucking afro!’

‘Hey, I had that shaved off a long time ago, so—’

Something clicked.

From the gloom, past the dazzling halogen headlights shining across the rainswept moorland and tufts of heather nestling at ground level, came the sound of padding armoured claws.

A bulky shape stopped in the gloom, tantalisingly hidden by the edges of shadows cast by the bright bike lights.

Ravioli and Worzel ceased their petty argument.

A large dark rain-slick triangular head swept towards them. There came a gleam of copper eyes. The ground trembled softly underfoot, and Ravioli and Worzel took a step away from the hole, the spade, and the severed leg. They licked dry lips and swallowed, their throats coarse. They glanced nervously at each other - as if to confirm that this was not a bad moorland night-mirage.

‘Nice doggy,’ said Worzel.

‘That ain’t a doggy.’

‘You think I don’t know that? You think I think it’s a fucking donkey or something?’

‘I think we should run.’

‘Run or fight?’

‘Or ... the third option?’

Ravioli produced a Mars bar. He took off the wrapper and broke off a chunk of chocolate, stretching strings of soft toffee. Worzel stared hard at his friend.

‘What the
fuck
are you doing?’

‘I was going to entice it away with chocolate.’ Ravioli looked suddenly a little uncertain.

The creature ... growled.

Ravioli and Worzel turned to run - and felt something crash into them with the force of a train smashing into a wall. Claws rent flesh in the darkness, slashing left and right with economical movements. A spray of gore and blood filled the temporary shallow grave. Two bodies rolled away in several separate pieces, skin, bone, intestines and muscle flapping loosely - and blank dead eyes stared up at the heavy downpour.

The Sleeper turned, its own eyes glowing for an instant like miniature twin suns caught in the beams of the halogen bike-lamps - and from behind the bikes came more shapes, moving through the rain: two, three, five, ten ... twenty ... dark bodies glistening with chitinous exoskeletons. They moved on armoured claws, warily, heavy muscles bunched as the world trembled in the fist of the impending and building quake. Their eyes turned towards the distant lights of the city and the scent of the humans beyond.

They sprinted into the night.

And were gone.

Ivers stared with incredible boredom at the titanium-carbide VII drill bit rotating at high speed within its protective Plas-7 sheath. The platform was solid beneath his feet, his lust for Michelle even stronger as the minutes until their next amorous meeting ticked by ... but something else had wormed its way into his brain—

A needle.

A needle of... curiosity.

‘Hey, Oldroyd?’

‘Yeah?’

Oldroyd was in his late thirties, and although only small in stature he made up for his lack of height with his character. He was chirpy, cheerful - bouncing, some would say. He always had a clever quip, a witty put-down, a humorous piece of pornographic verse: many underestimated Oldroyd, but always to their own cost. With a smile he could destroy a room full of cocktail party guests. With a quip he could decimate a legion of underrated comedians. With a baring of his arse on live TV, he could offend a nation. Which he had done on four occasions in life, thus far.

‘You know when that inspectorate team came here, with the guy in the robes?’

‘Durell.’

Ivers met Oldroyd’s look but for once the small man’s humour had evaporated. Ivers waited for the punch line -none came. I suppose there are some things in life which are just not funny, he mused.

‘I think they went down the tubes under the Sub-3KM control quarters.’

‘Why do you think that?’ Oldroyd’s normally cheeky expression was deadly serious.

‘I don’t know ... the equipment looked like it might have been moved.’ Ivers shrugged. ‘Forget it, forget I said anything about it. I’m just fucking imagining things.’

Oldroyd tutted. ‘Aye lad, you should get yourself a girlfriend.’ He smiled roguishly. ‘That usually cures supernatural imaginings for me.’

Ivers chuckled, and went back to checking the titanium-carbide VII drill bit. Fantasies played through his head - fantasies of small cars with large engines, his ambition to rebuild and customise a Helix Coupe 6.0 litre, replacing the motor with a 1250 bhp 24-cylinder monster ... and his inherent need to lavish love, care and attention on his most favourite of favourite hobbies: bike racing - preferably on 1296cc Ducatis.

Kenny’s voice came from the ComChamber, whining a little. ‘Something’s going on. Upstairs.’ ‘Upstairs’ was their nickname for above ground. Away from the drilling sites.

Ivers frowned. ‘Like what?’

‘The order’s come down to shut down the drill bit.’

‘What, slow it down?’

‘No,
shut
it down.’

Ivers shook his head, but Kenny was already punching in the digits. The huge bit slowed to a crawl and, hissing loudly, rolled to a halt. A strange silence seemed to pervade the underground site.

Ivers glanced upwards, almost nervously.

He could feel the weight of the world - and it weighed heavy.

‘Come on.’ The others were ascending the pressure lifts and Ivers followed, watching his fellow LVA-ENG team members disappear up the tubes. He stumbled just before the tube engaged, fell to one knee on the hardwood deck - and then glanced up.

Buzzers were sounding across the console.

Ivers turned and moved swiftly to the hatchway leading to the tube which in turn led under their control deck; it was intended for service personnel and led down towards the bottom of the shafts to allow deeper servicing of the titanium-carbide VII. He popped the hatch and stared down into the gloom.

He licked his lips.

Going down there is a sackable offence, mused his inner voice.

But he knew. Knew that something was
wrong.

Taking a deep breath, Ivers climbed into the tube and hit the SEND button; he felt his whole body
compress
and then he stepped out in the tiny alloy work bay.

It was very dark. But something was glowing - displaying soft blue digits.

Frowning, Ivers moved forward and stooped, finally dropping to his knees to get a closer look. There was a long thin grey box, with a small alloy cube attached. Digits flickered across the cube, and it was these that glowed.

‘What is it?’ he muttered.

And then he heard a noise - a scuff behind him.

He whirled - to see the barrel of a gun pointing straight at his face. He blinked, swallowed, and tried to step back. But the alloy wall was there - and he had nowhere to go. No escape. No path to freedom and life.

The figure was slim, athletic, wearing a body-hugging grey jumpsuit and a balaclava. The eyes glowed like molten copper and burned into Ivers with their fearsome fixed intensity.

Ivers lifted his hands in front of his face, as if they could halt the bullet.

‘No ...’ he whispered.

The Nex moved forward, gun nudging past Ivers’s defensive fingers until the barrel touched against his forehead, sliding a little against the sudden sweat there. Ivers closed his eyes. He prayed, images flickering like movie scenes through his scattered thoughts ...

Tears rolled down his cheeks.

The Nex’s finger tightened imperceptibly on the trigger.

‘No ...
’ whispered Ivers.

And then - the unimaginable. The pressure of the gun was released, and Ivers opened his tear-filled eyes. The Nex had tilted its head, its copper-eyed stare still fixed unblinkingly on his face.

It gestured with the gun.

‘Huh?’

‘It’s your lucky day. Go on. Fuck off.’

‘Th— tha—’

‘Just go. But first, a word of advice.’ Ivers halted, reluctant to turn his back on the entity with the gun. Those copper eyes made him want to pee his pants - but stinking of urine was not something that filled him with enthusiasm so he contained himself. ‘There are some things that you are destined never to see in life,’ the Nex said softly, its voice asexual. ‘This is one of them. I suggest that you keep your mouth shut. Or I will have to shut it for you.’

Ivers scuttled away.

Calmly, the Nex folded its arms and retreated into the shadows.

The Comanche spun low over the Mediterranean Sea, rotor blades flashing in the sunlight as the LHTec engines whined.

The war machine came in wide across the lapping silver waters, crossing the coastline of Crete midway between Keratókambos and Ierapetra on the large island’s southern shores. Carter touched down on a section of rough ground that Spiral used for such covert operations - miles from civilisation - and he and Mongrel quickly unloaded the KTM LC7 motorbikes and cammed up the chopper using netting woven with fake foliage.

They fired the bikes into life and Mila scrambled on behind Carter. They headed a short distance cross-country until they reached the narrow winding coastal road. Here Carter halted the KTM and, its engine rumbling between his legs, he peered out over the sparkling waters as the autumn sun rose above, high into the sky.

He breathed deeply, feeling simultaneously free and enslaved - jerked back on his leash by The Priest and his request for a meeting. Carter knew it would be important - and The Priest had specifically mentioned Natasha.

‘Ah, fuck it.’

He twisted the throttle hard and the rear tyre spun, kicking out sand across the wind-scarred dusty tarmac. Then he virtually fired the bike down the road on an insanely accelerating surge of power.

Mila clung tightly to the back, her hair whipping in the mad breeze - and wondered at their wisdom in wearing no helmets—