The Man From U.N.D.E.A.D.'s Christmas Carol (6 page)

“
What the cr...
?
”

“
You don
’
t get to talk,
”
one of the soldiers said urgently and pointed a large gun at my face.
“
Until the Boss tells you to.
”

Moments later I couldn
’
t have talked if I
’
d wanted to as all sound was dro
wned out by the roar of aeroplanes
passi
ng overhead at a very low altitude
. The whole of the vehicle shuddered and was buffeted by the downwash from the aircraft, slewing from side to side.

“
Paste the ugly sods!
”
one of the soldiers yelled and apparently the aircraft did just that because there was a series of devastating explosions
that were so closely spaced
they resolved into one continuous roar of sound. A shockwave lifted the rear of the vehicle and pushed it alon
g for quite a distance before finally dissipating
and
leaving
the armo
ured personnel carrier
to drive along under its own steam (or internal combustion or nuclear fusion or whatever it was that actually powered it) for a while.

Eventually, the vehicle slowed and came to halt. The crew were challenged and the leader left the vehicle to speak to the challenger. I wasn
’
t able to overhear the conversation or the passwords used and the soldier who was guarding me was well enough trained not to be fooled by my pretence at moving around
just
to get comfortable. Saving me was one thing, but giving me the comforts of
home
life was quite something else. I was more interested in what they were saving me for. Something to do w
i
th my face they had said, but as far as I could tell it was the same face that I had always had. I hadn
’
t been given the
chance to look into a mirror to check, of course, but it certainly felt the same.

The
code words
were apparently acceptable to whoever had demanded them and the APC moved forward again, driving out of the merciless sunlight and into a darkened space where it stopped and I was ordered to get out.

“
The Channel Tunnel,
”
I recognised the place right off. One of the regular tasks undertaken by U.N.D.E.A.D. was to sweep out the Gremlins that liked to hide in the tunnel and hitch a ride on the passing trains, chewing o
n the power and brake relays. Getting rid of them
was a tedious, thankless task and so the Director reserved it for those who had caused her particular annoyance since the last sweep.

“
What do you know about it?
”
the soldier guarding me demanded, surprised and angry at the same time.

“
Not a lot apparently,
”
I told him, looking around at the familiar place that was no longer so familiar. Though it was undeniably the Channel Tunnel, something fairly catastrophic had happened
to it
. The end of the tunnel had collapsed, completely filling the aperture. This was, I presumed, an illusion cast to camouflage whatever use the tunnel was being put to since the APC had
encountered
no trouble in entering the cave. The damage that had been done to the interior of the tunnel was no illusion however. Whole chunks of the wall had fallen out and sections of it had collapsed onto the rails, many of which had been removed where they hadn
’
t been buried
under the debris
. There were scorch marks in various places and the whole surface seemed to be pockmarked with what looked like bullet holes. There were
plastic
cases stacked all around with various designations in military typefaces and none of them suggested that the contents were fluffy bunnies
for the children
. There
were a lot of soldiers
milling
around and none of them looked as though they had seen any rest in recent times.

“
Come on,
”
the leader of the men who
had brought me into this place
pushed me by the shoulder. I thought that I was recovered enough to be able to deal with him, but the two others that followed him were far too vigilant for me to be able to get to them before they shot me full of more holes than the tunnel walls. Whatever else they were, they were professional troops and I wasn
’
t going to be able to get the drop on them. Even if I did, there were dozens of others that I would have to fight my way through
before I got out
, so I allowed myself to be herded deeper into the tunnel until we reached an area being used
as a planning base by the officers
.

I was handed over to another couple of soldiers who flanked me on either side and marched me into the enclosure with the leader of the combat troops following on behind.

There was a lot of activity going on inside the command enclosure. Information was coming in via encrypted radio, hologram and crystal ball
sets
. There was even a report being delivered by an astrally
-
projected officer in one corner. His situation wasn
’
t too good judging by the way that the slightly translucent image kept ducking from incoming fire that could neither be seen nor heard. The reports were being run between the various commanders
’
tables
by junior ranks
and orders were then given and transmitted back out to the fighting troops.

“
Report,
”
a lieutenant in
an
U.N.D.E.A.D. Infantry Corps uniform ordered without looking up from the maps and charts littered over the table that I had been marched to
ward
.

“
Zone seven
’
s been taken,
”
the leader of the band of men who had brought me in replied smartly.
“
We were attacked by SlumDogs and had to call in air support to sterilise the area.
”

“
SlumDogs?
”
I couldn
’
t help asking.

SlumDogs existed wherever there were slums. They were six-legged scavengers that lived off the things that even the human slum dwellers wouldn
’
t
eat. There were tales that the more adventurous of them
had taken small babies from their makeshift cribs or had feasted on a dead body that nobody had claimed, but these reports had never been proven
and were almost certainly urban legends
.
As the historical slums had been cleared, so the SlumDog population had fallen
in line
with the loss of their natural habitat
.
They had nasty claws and sharp little teeth, but only ever attacked people when they had been cornered and couldn
’
t slink away into the waste
pits or sewers. The idea of SlumDogs
taking on armed troops was absurd. Even more absurd was the suggestion that they had won.

“
Who is this?
”
the lieutenant asked, finally looking up.

“
We found him wandering about out there,
”
the combat soldier told him.

“
Then he should have gone to an evac centre, not here,
”
the lieutenant pointed out.

“
Yes sir,
”
the fighter replied, clearly meaning
‘
no sir
’
, and adjusted one of the table lamps on the desk so that it illuminated my face.

The lieutenant gasped.

“
We thought the Boss would want to see him.
”

“
You thought right,
”
the lieutenant confirmed. Picking up a field telephone, he punched in a number.
“
I need to see the Boss and right now.
”

I couldn
’
t make out what the person on the other end of the line was saying, but the lieutenant insisted,
“
For this, absolutely.
”

That was apparently the right answer because the lieutenant hung up and nodded further down the tunnel. My escort herded me in that direction. We were met at the other side
of the enclosure
by
no less than
a major who examined m
y face intently
,
through intensely curious and suspicious
eyes
,
before leading us
all into a command tent that was set apart from the other areas. One entire wall of the tent was covered with televisions showing images of battle. In front of the screens stood another figure in fatigues, watching events unfolding with hands cla
sped together behind her
back.

“
Ma
’
am,
”
the major said, interrupting the
superior
officer
’
s watchfulness,
“
I think that you need to see this.
”

The female officer turned around and I would have taken a step backward had I not had the muzzle of a gun pressed up against my kidneys.

“
David
?
”
Veronika asked, puzzled.
No, it was more than puzzlement; it was shock.

There was no doubt the officer
was Veronika
(
I would hav
e re
cognised that face anywhere, no
matter how well disguised),
but her
previously
long hair had been cut severely short and showed
more than a few streaks of grey in
what remained of
it. Her flawless skin had picked up some wrinkles along the way, especially around her mouth and forehead. Her eyes were slightly sunken and surrounded by dark patches that spoke of far too little sleep. There was also a scar that ran from her right temple across her cheek and under her jaw. It was still Veronika, though, and she was still beautiful.

“
No, I
’
m not David
,
”
I told her.
“
I don
’
t know who David
is. I do know who you are though.
”

“
Oh,
”
she asked curiously,
“
and who am I?
”

“
You
’
re Veronika Bevilacqua, head of the Agency Menagerie.
”

She fro
wned, which I found surprising. After all, she ought to have been more familiar with who she was than I was. She’d had more years of practice.

“
Bevilacqua?
I haven
’
t gone by that name in several years now. Nor have I been U.N.D.E.A.D.
’
s zookeeper for some time. My name is Veronika Ward,
”
she told me to much the same effect as if she had slapped me across the face with a wet fish (minus the lingering aftersmell).

“
Ward?
”
was pretty much all that I could manage to say.

“
You should be familiar with the name,
”
she said
, coming closer to examine me,
“
since it belongs to the man whose face you
’
re wearing. The question is to what end?
”

“
I am not wearing anyone
’
s face,
”
I insisted.
“
This is my face. It
’
s the one that I was born with. You can ask my mother ... if you can find her.
”

She frowned again at that. Not many people are aware of the situation surrounding my mother and it was unlikely that a mere imposte
r would be aware of it. There a
r
e creatures, however, that can
take your memories as well as your face.

“
Look, there is no way that I can prove to you who I am,
”
I told her,
“
and you appear to have strong reasons to believe that I am not who I appear to be ...
”