The Brink (9 page)

“Blue car is trying it,” she replied. “Bunch up, Gary. I’ll need Alan over my side if they try the C4 trick again.”

“I think she loves you,” laughed Gary. “You okay to jump the trucks?”

“I’ll have to be, won’t I?”

“We’re not going that fast. I’ll put her alongside and you should be okay. An object in motion and all that.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Once more, Alan climbed through the hatch and onto the roof, clipping himself on to the rail whilst the two lumbering beasts began to drift together. The blue car was looking for a chance to skirt around the outside of Reb’s truck and as the gap between them closed, he found it.

“Yeah, someone just jumped on,” said Reb.

“I’m on it,” replied Alan. His stomach decided it was a good time to clench just as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall, splattering across his shoulders as he bent down to unclip the safety line. The roof of Reb’s truck looked slick already and he realised that if he messed up his jump he’d more than likely slide straight off the other side and become road kill.

He made the leap just as a head appeared over the rail on the far side and as he skidded to a halt he looked up in time to see a pistol levelled at him. The scavenger fired and the bullet slammed into his shoulder, pitching him backwards and sending him falling over the side. He reached out and was just able to grab the rail as he went, stopping himself from being crushed under the wheels of the blue car which had appeared beneath him.

“Harding!” cried Gary.

Alan pulled himself up enough to get his feet on the rungs of a ladder, feeling the fire burning in his wounded shoulder as he did so. He cursed over and over, wanting to climb back up and tear the man’s head off his shoulders in a mad rage. He felt like people were shooting him for the fun of it now, as if they knew it would never kill him and they wanted to make a joke out of it. It felt personal and it felt deeply unfair.

He launched himself upwards, climbing back onto the roof just as the tall, thin scavenger was planting his explosives near the hatch to Reb’s cab. Instinctively, Alan clipped himself to the rail and came up behind the man who had no reason to believe that he hadn’t died under the wheels of the truck. Grabbing him by the collar of his dirty leather jacket, he held him in place whilst he drove his fist into his kidneys over and over again until he crumpled beneath him.

Taking him by the ankle, he dragged the struggling form to the edge of the truck and with little or no hesitation, pitched him over the side.

“Alan - are you okay?” asked Reb, frantic with worry.

“I’m fine,” he replied, moving towards the C4. “Let me deal with this first.”

Again he tore the explosive from the hatch and threw it behind them. He could see that the blue car had pulled back a little - indeed, all of them had now backed off and as he stood there, staring at them with the last dregs of his anger, he raised the XC10 and fired. The shots went wide but one struck the glass of the blue Vauxhall, shattering it and killing the driver who, in his death, yanked the steering wheel over to the right and ploughed straight into the car next to him. Both veered off towards the barrier and both became tangled wrecks of blood and steel and bone, left behind in a cloud of dust and rainfall.

“Jesus, Alan - we’ll make a soldier out of you yet!” cried Reb.

6

McNeil was waiting at the RV and as his team waved them onwards and down the slip road, they took up firing positions above and around the barricade they’d built, ready for the pursuers. The fire fight lasted all of 10 minutes and when the smoke cleared, the scavengers were found to be dead before they’d even managed to get out of their cars.

The two hulking Rhinos arrived back at the retail park and were waved through the gates by the guards who grinned from ear to ear, feeling every bit of the victory as if they’d actually taken part. From there they were directed to the southern end of the car park where crates were being stacked in anticipation of their return by three forklifts that sped back and forth from the main warehouse like giant worker ants. It was a hive of activity with people scurrying around, shifting equipment and ticking off gigantic crates of supplies on their clipboards with seemingly great authority.

“I guess us not coming back with the Rhinos never crossed their minds,” said Alan as they met behind Reb’s truck.

“I guess not,” was Gary’s reply. “So much was riding on these trucks that if we hadn’t come back I don’t know what they’d have done.”

“Makes you wonder.”

“What does?”

“Well,” he said. “These are just for the supplies. What are the people travelling in?”

“I guess we’ll find out soon enough. There he is, surveying his empire.”

They both looked up at the great long window on the third floor that overlooked the park and must have been an impressive place to hold board room meetings in before the disaster. Now it served Teague as his personal rooms and from where they stood they could see him looking down at the Rhinos and the hurried movements and the frantic activity, smiling as he paced along the entire length of glass with a drink in his hand.

“I feel like you’re hinting at something,” said Alan just as Moll ran off to go sniffing around the tents and cook fires in search of scraps.

“Hinting?”

“Yeah.
Teague
.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Sure. That’s why you said it.”

Gary looked at him and smiled. “There’s a real risk of people underestimating you, Harding.”

“Don’t change the subject,” he replied.

“I’m not. I saw you up there on top of the truck. Not many-” he raised his hands to box the next word in quotes, “civilians would have just got up there and done that.”

“I don’t mean to be blunt; Gary, but we’re all civilians now.”

“That’s true,” he said. “I guess that Teague is about all the army this country has left. Man, we’d just gotten over the US plague; just got this country back on its feet and here we are, back on the deck again with our pants around our ankles.”

“Like I said, if I didn’t know better-” Gary waved the comment away with a smile.

“Yeah, but I’ve never been much of a believer in the Almighty and I don’t even think my alien theory will hold much water, so let’s just admit that we’ve been bloody unlucky, okay?”

They walked on towards their bunks, passing along the rows of busy camps where the survivors were finishing off their breakfasts or tidying away their cook kits with renewed enthusiasm. The appearance of the Rhinos, the clear signs of action and the rumours of travelling to a new and bigger settlement gave the place a heightened atmosphere and it was one that Alan thought might just be tangible in certain nooks and corners. He held his own reserves in silence. He felt uneasy that these armoured beasts were intended for transporting the supplies and not, as they should have been, for the women, the children and the weaker survivors. He stole a glance up at Teague who was reading some slips of paper and the gut feeling he had intensified.

“We’d better see Smythe,” said Gary. He was pressing the myriad of buttons on the display of his laser rifle in a poor theatrical manner. “I don’t like the way this thing performed.”

“Bull shit,” cried Alan. “You want what I’ve got, don’t you?”

“Hey, in that outpost this thing was firing in all directions. It was hard to actually hit anything. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“From where I was standing it looked like you were hitting plenty!”

“Yeah, well, even at my worst I’m still a better shot than you.” They laughed together but just before they reached the doorway to the eccentric armourer, Gary touched his arm and beckoned him to stop.

“Do you know how to sabotage one of these things?” he asked, holding up the rifle.

“Kind of, but why would you want to?” he replied with a look of concern. Gary, not easily ruffled, even in combat, looked distressed as he made sure no one could hear him when he spoke.

“Okay, I admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“I think you’re on to something.”

Alan frowned. “You mean about the trucks?”

“Yeah,” said Gary. “The trucks. Do you know about them?”

“They’re big and hard to drive and it’s not a good idea to fall off them. That’s about the extent of my knowledge though.”

“Okay, for once, just take me seriously, Harding.” The stern, cold rebuke wounded him and he felt his cheeks redden.

“Sorry, man. Go on. What’s bothering you?”

“Those trucks, the Rhinos, are built with a specific purpose in mind - they’re lead lined. The cab. The back. The engine. Even the fuel system is designed to be hyper-efficient, top of the range stuff.”

“Lead lined? You mean they’re built to survive a nuclear attack?”

“Maybe not the attack, but the fallout afterwards.”

They fell silent as two guards came walking past on their way inside, stopping to congratulate them on a successful mission. Neither Alan nor Gary felt much like celebrating now. Their thoughts had darkened as if a shadow had suddenly crept out from between the refugee tents and smothered them in its cold arms.

Once the guards had passed on, he continued.

“When Britain fell last time the Yanks had to come in a shut down the power plants before they went into meltdown.”

“But all nuclear plants in England were replaced with solar collectors.” said Alan.

“But not everywhere, not globally. There are still nuclear plants out there in the Middle East, Australia and a few others that didn’t finish the renovations before the disaster. A lot of these countries were behind on their schedules, cut backs, big corporations fighting over contracts. Renewable energy put a lot of people out of business so it’s no surprise that they tried to recoup their losses with some dodgy deals here and there.”

“So you’re saying any one of these could have gone into meltdown now?”

“Yeah. They can only manage a few years before the rods overheat and cause an explosion spreading radioactive dust everywhere. In the clouds. In the atmosphere. Floating around until it lands somewhere.”

“So you think Teague had this in mind when he sent us out for the trucks?”

“Maybe.”

“But what difference does it make?”

“All the difference, Alan. Like you said - where are the trucks for the civilians? Why are the supplies being protected but not them?”

“So let me get this straight - you think that a radioactive dust cloud is on its way here and Teague plans to get his supplies out and live the high-life in his protected shell while the rest of us start to glow? Come on, you were defending the guy a minute ago, now you’re ready to lynch him.”

Gary tried to smile but it was thin and weak. The seed of the idea had been planted in fertile soil and it would be difficult to root it out now.

“So where does sabotaging your weapon come into it?” he asked.

“If I’m right.”

“
If
you’re right...”

“Then I want a reliable weapon. I want bullets. I want something that I can maintain myself and maybe even learn to make the rounds too.”

Alan could see from the pale expression on his face that there was no stopping him, that the wild look in his eyes was the mark of someone desperate to survive something he’d just learned was out to kill him. What difference would the rifle make? Would he cut and run? Did he have some kind of plan to escape the radiation? Alan was baffled but when he looked at the worried face of his friend and saw the concern he couldn’t help but be moved.

“Let’s see what we can do about it then.”

After he’d helped Gary to persuade Smythe to part with another of his children, Alan went back to his bunk and laid down, unable to get his suspicions out of his mind. Moll was still roaming around the tents and hadn’t come back yet. The other beds were empty. Reb had gone to get some food with Gary and debrief Teague on what had happened. Alan didn’t need to be there - they’d give a far more articulate report than he could ever put together. He imagined what it would have sounded like explaining that he’d been shot, nearly crushed, stabbed and survived it all. This way, by lying out on his bunk in relative silence, he’d avoid all that.

He managed a few pages of the book he was reading before he gave it up, looked at the door and decided he needed company, people, anything other than the silence of an empty room. It was ominously quiet, like a portent of the future. A possible future. One where only the survivors of Longsteel lived spread out across the globe whilst the rest of the human race died of the radioactive plague. Maybe it was an overactive imagination that made him look at the photos on the wall, the trinkets beside each bunk and the comic still there on Gary’s bed and mourn the loss of a world that was still very much alive and threatened only by his own fears. But was it just his fear? Or had Gary’s worries simply resonated with his own deep seated suspicions?

Either way he knew he had to get out of the bunk house. He’d taken off his smock and hung it up, patching up the small hole the pistol had made with some duct tape and hoping that a needle and thread would hide the rest. He made a mental note to see Smythe about some body armour - that way he’d do less damage to his clothing and at least some of his ‘miraculous’ wounds would be easily dismissed if he was questioned. He knew that Reb had seen too much already and it would only be a matter of time before she started reaching her own conclusions.

He walked out into the fresh air and made his way to a small coffee shop which Teague had set up as a kind of bar for rationed alcohol to be handed out at no cost. It was the smallest shop in the precinct and Alan was pretty sure that he’d chosen it for that reason. The crates of bottled beer, the boxes of vodka and the battered aluminium barrels of ale took up one small corner of the warehouse and they were an allowance that a soldier knew was a necessary evil when leading men and women. Teague resented this small concession to vice and it was clear by the way he never visited the place, but instead chose to drink in the privacy of his own room and even that was limited to one or two glasses of scotch a night. Alan knew this because the rest of his team saw it as one of his many virtues and looked upon him in the classic British way of seeing the upper class Officers as higher beings incapable of sin. For reasons beyond his knowledge, the English had held to this subconscious belief for a great number of years now and it still managed to force its way to the surface like weeds through tarmac.

The coffee shop, small and narrow but long enough to allow rows of booths and little round tables to be arranged comfortably, was busy when he arrived and it required some difficult crowd negotiation to reach the counter, behind which two of Teague’s men took orders and handed out bottles or plastic cups of booze as quickly as they could. Alan ordered two beers and took them back outside the stuffy place, taking a seat in the area sectioned off from the concourse by a series of velvet ropes.

The table he sat at was sticky with something but he took no notice as he set his bottles down, taking a long pull from the first before giving a sigh of relief. The concourse was busy with traffic; survivors coming and going with boxes of supplies in their arms, some going to get medicine, others just milling around, chatting, laughing, getting a drink or just looking for company like he was.

Alan mused that it was a strange kind of community. It was nothing like he’d known before the disaster. There were no phones, no tablets, no tech to distract people who, only a few years earlier, would have been living zombies here, glued to their screens and their social networks until it was all taken away from them. Now, like Alan, they were talking again. They were laughing and crying and meeting new people and doing whatever it was mankind had been doing before Wi-Fi had come along. The truth was, in a strange kind of way, they’d been set free by the disaster. People had built their own electronic prisons; solitary cells of confinement from which they looked out on the real world and convinced themselves they were free, never realising that they were trapped, unable to be the people they were, always feeding some kind of illusion about themselves to the other convicts and never really knowing the truth.

Maybe, he thought, he’d been as much a part of it as they were. Maybe he was free too. Except maybe he couldn’t be. Maybe, he wondered, the curse that ran hot in his veins and made him impervious to the dangers of the world was its own prison, a new one with only a handful of inmates who lived apart from the free people, looking out, unable to feel what they felt or risk what they risked for it.