Spiral (40 page)

They came to a series of closed doors, and Stephanie squeezed Will’s hand several times, clearly with no intention of letting go. Although he was pretending to be wrapped up in his exploration of the level, Will’s mind was racing. He couldn’t help but remember how pretty Stephanie had looked back in the stairwell.

He cleared his throat. “This is the arsenal. It was locked last time I was here,” he said, as light from his orb fell on an open doorway. “Let’s take a look inside.”

“Sure, let’s,” she said, brightening up. Her other hand was now on his forearm.

Will was picturing her clear blue eyes and the way her mouth crinkled at the edges when she smiled. His pulse quickened. Maybe she was right — maybe it didn’t matter. Will knew how much Chester liked her, but his friend was hardly in any frame of mind to bother about that now, and probably wouldn’t be for a long time. And Elliott was clearly more interested in looking after Chester than being with him. If they were all going to run out of air in a week or so, then everything was different, and Stephanie was right: Nothing at all mattered anymore.

Except for whatever time they had left . . .

Before Will knew what he was doing, he’d increased his grip on Stephanie’s hand and was pulling her into the room with him.

Once inside, they stopped. Will had dropped the luminescent orb to his side, and Stephanie was in front of him, not much more than a gray shadow. She slid her hand up his arm.

“You know, you’re very special,” she said.

“Don’t wha’ever y’do light a mash in here,” a low, slurred voice advised. “Bad bad mishtake.”

Stephanie squealed.

Will spun in the direction of the voice, whipping up the orb to see who was there. The room was large, with row upon row of racking shelves, which housed all the weapons and explosives in the Complex.

“Who’s that?” Will demanded, trying to sound as confident as he could. “Who is it?”

“Jusht little ol’ me,” the voice rumbled, still slurring. “If you light a mash, we’ll all be blowed up. Cos of the munishuns.”

Will stepped toward the source of the voice, Stephanie now clinging on to him, terrified.

The light from the orb fell upon a man slumped lopsidedly on some sacks.

“Sparks!” Will exclaimed. “What the heck are you doing here?”

“Shame thing you four are,” he drawled. “I jush wanted to be on my loneshome-woneshome.”

Will and Stephanie were looking down at him in astonishment. Sweeney’s shirt was unbuttoned to his stomach. What appeared to be two small metal terminals sprouting from his sternum were connected by wires to an industrial battery at his side, which he was hugging. Sweeney followed their gaze to it.

“Yesh . . . don’t really have to charge myshelf up like thish,” he said, his eyes slow-blinking as he spoke. “Butsh I thought I could do with a top up of the old resherve cells. Jush in cayshe.”

“Sparks, you sound really weird,” Will ventured. “You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

“No, shir! Never touch the shtuff! It’sh the extra juice — hash thish effect, shometimes. Makesh me a touch woozy,” Sweeney replied. He attempted to sit up, but didn’t get very far. “Y’know . . . I earwigged everyshing you were shaying.”

“Everything?” Will said, throwing a quick glance at Stephanie.

With his free hand Sweeney tried to point at them, his arm swinging wildly. “Yesh . . . and lishen . . . if the worsht comes to the worsht . . . and we cash in our schips” — grimacing, he shook his head with comic gravity — “then we
should
all throw ourshelves in those water tanksh. Nearly drowned onesh in a shubmarine. Not shush a bad way to go. Better than shuffocation.”

“But, Sparks, we’re going to get out of this place. It’s not over yet!” Will said, shocked to hear the old soldier talking that way. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

“Shure I’m shure. Now take the weight off, shonny. Schtay with me a while. Tell all your friends to join ush, too.”

“But there are only two of —” Stephanie began, falling silent as Will caught her eye.

“Of course we’ll stay with you,” Will said. He pulled some of the empty sacks over so that he and Stephanie could sit on them. Although there was plenty of room on the sacks for the two of them, as Stephanie adjusted her position, her leg touched Will’s. And she left it there, while Will tried his best to have an exchange with Sweeney, who was making very little sense.

“Can I ask what name your booking’s under?” the spritely receptionist in a pink tracksuit inquired.

She pulled a pencil from her tightly curled hair, allowing herself a curious glance at the confident young girl standing before the desk, a handsome if dopey-looking chauffeur at her side.

Then, twirling the pencil between her thumb and forefinger as if it was a small baton, the woman used the mouse to scroll through a page on her computer screen. “I assume it’s for a relative? Your mother or father perhaps?” The receptionist had seen the top-of-the-range Mercedes draw up outside, followed by a coach, so it was clearly someone important. And since they didn’t take children, the reservation couldn’t be for the slip of a girl in front of her. “If you can ask them to come in, we’ll make sure their room’s ready.”

“That’s neat,” Rebecca Two said, watching the trick with the pencil as it helicoptered around and around in the receptionist’s hand.

“Oh, thank you. It’s something I picked up from an old boyfriend,” the receptionist said distantly. She was intrigued to find out who was about to grace their exorbitantly expensive establishment, but when she reached the end of the booking schedule on her computer and saw that there were only a few regulars yet to check in, she frowned. “We are terribly full at the moment. What was the name of the booking?”

“Booking?” Rebecca Two repeated as the old Styx strolled into the reception area and then peered around at the photographs of various activities offered at the exclusive health farm in the depths of the Kentish countryside. The photographs were of people swimming in the Olympic-length pool, having massages and facials, and jogging in a group on the extensive grounds surrounding the converted stately home.

“Yes, the booking. I assume it’ll be for you, sir?” the receptionist asked, directing the question to the old Styx. He’d wandered to the large windows at the rear of the reception area that looked out onto the swimming pool, and was watching the morning aqua-aerobics class, which was in full swing.

“Sir? Hello?” the receptionist said, as the grizzled-looking man didn’t bother to reply. She bit her tongue. However exasperated she was becoming with the two odd-looking guests, she had to be careful because the chances were that the man was an important new client.

She studied his profile as he turned to a bulletin board where all the day’s activities had been posted. With his hair raked back, the elderly man was dressed in a black ankle-length leather coat. That made the receptionist think he might be some famous film director — or, as she scrutinized him further, maybe a musician. She tried to recall the names of the members of the Rolling Stones — they all looked as thin and drawn as he did. Yes, maybe this man
was
one of them. But not the singer with the luscious mouth and the hips — she’d have known if it was him.

The coach outside could be their tour bus, and maybe his reservation had been made under a pseudonym. That wasn’t uncommon, since celebrities came to the health farm to escape the limelight and get themselves performance-fit again.

So the receptionist waited patiently, spinning her pencil and quietly humming
Ti-i-i-ime is on my side
to herself. The last thing she wanted to do was offend whatshisname if she could possibly help it.

A gaggle of women chatting breathlessly to each other chose that moment to pass through the lobby on their way to a Pilates session.

“How many people do you have staying here?” the old Styx demanded when they’d gone.

The receptionist was quite unprepared for the severity of his cold, dead eyes on her. Little black holes that made her want to look away. Made her want to run away. “One hundred and twenty guests at full capacity, but we also have a substantial number of people with day passes coming in for classes and the gym.”

The old Styx nodded. “And are all your guests chronically obese like those women we just saw?”

Not unsurprisingly, the receptionist was rather taken aback by this question. “I don’t think that’s —”

“There’s ample human flesh for our purposes,” the old Styx interrupted, speaking to Rebecca Two.

“What?” the receptionist exclaimed, now looking at him with incomprehension.

The old Styx had plucked a walkie-talkie from his coat and was speaking on it in the strangest language the receptionist had ever heard.

“Sorry. It’s just not your day,” Rebecca Two said without emotion.

There was a crash as the main doors burst open.

The receptionist’s pencil went spinning across the room as something slavering appeared behind Rebecca Two and Captain Franz.

With a rasping roar, Alex cannoned into the desk, bowling it over. The receptionist was thrown onto her back. As she lay stunned on the floor, Alex leaped on top of her.

Giving a wail of relief as she gripped the sides of the young woman’s face, Alex sunk her ovipositor inside the girl, deep into her trachea, where the egg pod squeezed out.

Alex’s head was up in a second, gluey saliva spilling from around the ovipositor. “Need another . . . quick,” she rasped. “So many babies in me.”

Glancing fearfully at Alex, the old Styx had retreated well out of the way. He was at the main doors, where a squad of Limiters had turned up to collect their orders.

“I reckon we should try through here first,” Rebecca Two said to Alex, making for the door the Pilates women had taken.

“We might be onto something,” Drake declared, as they all gathered around the laptop. With the exception of Chester, who couldn’t be persuaded to leave the briefing room, and Elliott, who didn’t think he should be left alone, everyone was present.

It had been nearly a fortnight, and there was no doubt about it any longer — the air was more rarefied and it was becoming harder to breathe.

Will peered around at everybody. As their eyes reflected the glow of the computer screen, the sense of anticipation radiating from them was tangible. At least here was some hope. Not one of the other ideas had come to anything, and Will had begun to think only a miracle could save them now.

“Eddie and I have been going over the original construction plans for the Complex with a fine-toothed comb,” Drake said. He scrolled through a succession of pages on the screen. “Here are some cross-section schematics of the mountain to show how this installation sits inside it.” He settled on an illustration and tapped the screen with his finger. “You can see there’s a substantial margin of rock around the Complex, to protect it.”

“That was the basic idea,” Parry mumbled.

Eddie took over from Drake. “Nothing jumped out at us at first, but then we cross-referenced these construction plans with a geological survey undertaken in the fifties.”

Drake opened another window on the screen, which showed more cross sections of the mountain, but without any sign of the Complex. “This report referred to several areas toward the mid-contours of the mountain where the erosion was particularly marked.” Drake indicated one of the drawings. “And we noticed that on the northern face of the mountain — just above the small ledge you can see there — the erosion was quite considerable. Add another sixty-odd years of water action and frost damage, and even more of the rock will have been worn away.”

“The freeze-thaw cycle,” Will chimed in, then wished he hadn’t as Parry gave him a sharp look.

“So how does all this help us, exactly?” the old man asked.

“Time and water erosion wait for no man.” Drake smiled as he went back to the first window and dragged an image from it. “It helps us because if you overlay the geological report with the construction plans, the area of accelerated erosion is” — he pointed at the plan — “right next to the external wall at the end of Level 2.”

“So it’s the most vulnerable point in the Complex,” Eddie said. “And if we were to plant every last piece of explosive against that wall, there’s a slim chance we could blow a way out for ourselves.”