The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller (13 page)

***

Getting hungry. All this talk of sausages and breakfasts is actually bringing my appetite back, as much as I thought I’d never get it back again. There’s a couple of those shortbread biscuits here in a little dish, next to the packets of sugar, tea bags and single-serving mini-tubs of cream. They’ll do for now. I’d like to avoid ringing room service, if possible; the less human contact the better. I really, really want to be on my own right now. Still, it might be unavoidable. I’ve started thinking about bacon.

I’ve also been eyeing the little bottle of Sambuca here, and realising that I haven’t had any since that first night. Not by choice, just one of those things. I think I’ll start on that one next. You know what the irony of this whole story is? I hate to travel. I find it a real pain in the arse. Some people love it, and to an extent I understand that; new places, new people, new experiences. I get all that, and sometimes I could even go in for it myself. But then I think of the way time slows to a standstill when you’re in the
process
of the actual
travelling
itself, that interminable boredom that seems to operate on its own set of laws regarding time and space, and decide I’d rather not bother than go through that. But since the Stone Man came, it sometimes feels like I’ve done nothing else, for one reason or another.

Gonna keep the next bit brief. Travelling stuff. Boring. Paul comes in after that, so gonna get to it quick. Your bit’s coming up, Paul. This is where I slag you off like I’ve always wanted to. No, no, kidding, kidding.

***

The cab driver had taken me to the nearest McDonald’s, a journey that would normally have taken about five minutes. Today it took twenty. The roads were still crawling, whether due to structural repair and the resulting bottlenecks, or government interference, I didn’t know. I kept my eyes peeled for men in hazmat suits, but the only workers I saw that day were men in high-viz waistcoats, busy in the beginning stages of the rebuilding process. They
were
there in Coventry though, the government spooks; I found out later. Hell, I met the guy that
ran
the spooks. A lot of people at the time complained about the extreme protective measures that the government took during this period—shutting down roads and cancelling train travel anywhere within a radius of fifty miles from the Stone Man’s position at any time—but I thought they were right to do so. Nothing like this had been seen before; how could they not plan for the worst? The whole country was gripped. Apparently, over seventy-five percent of the country were glued to their sets that Sunday.

Everyone wanted to know what the hell it was, what the hell it was doing, where it was going, who’d sent it. The radio in the taxi talked about nothing else, in between songs, and there was a constant flow of new information to go with it. You might think not—how much can be said about something just walking?—but there was always another flattened building to report, another avoidable death for the blame game to be played over, another interview with the family of the person who had met with said avoidable death, another international message of support, another theory from a leading physicist, professor of chemistry, religious leader, another rebuttal from a prominent atheist, another vox-pop, studio discussion, analysis of earlier footage, another complaint about transport disruptions, another mini riot in the next town that the government reluctantly announced temporary evacuations from. Flight paths were altered miles away from the same area as the Stone Man, lest some unknown signal disrupt an aircraft’s instruments, causing air traffic chaos and resultant pandemonium at airport terminals up and down the country, organ transplants not reaching destinations on time or at all, more deaths, and so it went on. That’s what people always forget, when they express amazement at the body count that the Stone Man racked up. They think the numbers only meant people crushed in their homes, in cars. They forget about all the ripples it caused, ripples that caused waves that swept so many lives away.

The dilemma I’d had, on the way to my takeaway breakfast, was deciding the best way to get up to Sheffield and beyond. Trains were a nightmare, so that route was next to impossible. Roads were a better bet, but from the radio traffic reports it was clear that not only would I be looking at extremely lengthy tailbacks—hours, in some cases—but also having to deal with last-minute road closures that might mean getting stuck again in the rush to get back the other way. I needed to be able to ignore traffic if it arose; I needed a motorbike.

I knew how to ride, and had both my CBT and full motorbike licence, having owned a 750cc cruiser for about four years before I’d realised I just wasn’t using it anymore. Plus, not having a garage meant storing it outside, and it was heartbreaking to see the chrome begin to rust. It had been time to sell. Which left me currently up the creek.

Long story short, I made a few phone calls to old biking acquaintances I still kept in casual touch with over Facebook. Out of five people, I got no response from three of them, one told me he’d sold his, but Dan (a big, fifty-three-year-old mechanic with permanently dirty hands and a dirtier laugh) had a very small collection, and was happy to take me up on the offer of a hundred sheets to borrow one for two days; the only condition that any damage was ‘coming out of your ass, with interest’, and that all I could have was the 125cc Suzuki Marauder. I wasn’t too surprised. The Marauder had been his son’s, and the other two were a Triumph and a Harley. I didn’t expect to be lent one of those. The Marauder was like a mini version of the Harley in looks—and a micro version in terms of power—but it would do sixty fairly comfortably, and that was all I needed.

Forty-five minutes later (more than enough time to sort out temporary insurance online via my phone) Dan rode up to the McDonald’s car park on the bike, followed by his wife in the family Hyundai. He’d brought with him his son’s helmet (a little too snug, but it would do) and a leather jacket that was about two sizes too big for me. I thanked him profusely, and asked him to follow me to the nearest cashpoint, but he waved me off.

“Nah, I trust you,” he said, wagging his sausage finger with a grin. “Plus … I know where you live!” he finished, laughing at his own joke and clapping me on the shoulder. I hadn’t told him that where I lived didn’t exist anymore. He’d obviously missed it in the media frenzy, but regardless, I had every intention of paying him. “Anyway, there’s about twenty quid in the tank, so make sure the fucker comes back with about the same amount in it,” he finished. I assured him that the fucker would.

“Why you want to be off on that piece of shit anyway?” asked Dan, as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the Hyundai. His wife had already gotten out of it and had been waiting patiently in the passenger seat. There was a woman who was used to playing a certain part in Dan’s life. “History’s on the TV! If there wasn’t a soft hundred quid in it I wouldn’t have moved off the settee. Why pick today of all days to start missing the bike? You're not one of the end-of-the-world-crowd, are you? Those guys going nuts on TV. More riots!” he cried, waving his hands theatrically above his head and still grinning.

“Mid-life crisis,” I said. “I’ve already bought the leather trousers. I just needed the bike.” Dan roared with laughter, and got into the car, shutting the door. As I clipped on the helmet, I looked through the Hyundai’s window and could see him repeating the exchange we'd just had to his wife, who was smiling pleasantly. I swung the laptop bag over my shoulder, feeling its weight compress the gap between the too-big jacket and my back, and swung my leg over the Marauder’s leather seat. I found myself enjoying the feel and weight of the bike as I settled onto it, discovering that I’d actually missed it. It was, I realised, perfect for the job in hand; the same riding position as my old bike, which meant that I could get back into the swing of things pretty comfortably, but still small enough to easily wind through endless lines of traffic. Keys in the ignition, I pushed the starter button and the Marauder roared into life, albeit with a less audible roar than I was used to.

I felt comfortable almost immediately, my feet finding the gears nicely and actually enjoying the experience. It probably helped that the sun was out, as being on a bike is one of the very few things that I personally find are improved by high levels of heat. Try biking on a cold day, with very few layers on. The wind gets around you like an icy fist, but on hot days it creates a delicious breeze.

I won’t bore you with the journey, as I say; there was a LOT of traffic, more than I’d expected, but thanks to the Marauder I made relatively short work of it, albeit at a fraction of the traffic-free speed I would have liked to have been doing. The one thing I hadn’t expected was the religious element. Large groups were clearly visible in the service station car parks that I passed along the motorway, carrying fluorescent banners proclaiming that it was ‘Time to repent’ and singing songs that I couldn’t hear over the Marauder’s straining engine. Though one Stone Man was hardly enough to bring about Armageddon, I figured they’d seen it as a sign, a harbinger of things to come. These displays were obviously coordinated in some manner, as once I got through the first hour of the journey there was a different group at every service station. A fight had even broken out at one of them, between one of the singers and a guy who looked like a truck driver. Not everyone agreed with their interpretation, it seemed.

By the time I reached Sheffield it was around one in the afternoon, and I rode into the city centre under the now-blazing sun. The bright light, as it did with Coventry (as it does with anywhere) made the place look glorious, and on a normal sunny Sunday like this there would have been people everywhere, going about their business between the concrete buildings, but today there was hardly anyone. Even though I’d stopped to refuel, when I pulled up in the main train station car park and swung my leg up and over the seat to dismount, my hamstrings twinged heartily to let me know they weren’t happy about being stuck in position for so long. Walking like John Wayne, I shuffled round to the front of the bike and clamped on the disc lock, and took in my surroundings.

I don’t really know why I’d picked this central point; it just felt to me like a good idea, to get into the heart of the place and then try to feel my way outwards from there. As I looked at Sheaf Square, spreading out in front of me with a handful of people going about their business, it occurred to me that, were I so inclined, I could see an element of providence at work here; my journey beginning in one large concrete public square, and ending at another. I thought I knew better, though. I already felt that I needed to go farther. That low-level pull was still there, and the closer I’d gotten to Sheffield, the stronger it had become; even now, it was trying to take me somewhere else, merely lacking the strength and the grip to carry me off my feet to wherever it wanted me to go. No, not
me
. Where it wanted the
Stone Man
to go.

I went back to the bike, and after slipping off the ridiculously oversized jacket and pulling my sweat-soaked head out of the helmet, I dumped them on the seat and opened one of the saddlebags. Inside was an atlas of my own that I’d bought when I stopped for fuel, and this one was at least up to date. I’d already started to breathe slowly, to try and relax and prepare my mind for the new trick I’d learned, hoping it would be easier now I’d already performed it once; now, of course, that I was closer to wherever the Stone Man’s exact destination was.

I was flicking through the index, managing to miss ‘S’ twice in my rush, when I suddenly became aware of something else. A new sensation, one just out of reach. The pull was still there, no doubt, but there was another … something. It was like trying to hear if you’ve left the TV on in another room, without turning off the volume of the one you’re watching; barely there enough to be noticeable, and just when you convince yourself that you’re imagining things, you pick it up again. It was like the pull, felt very similar in fact, just smaller, and different.

The more I concentrated, the more sure I became that I wasn’t imagining it, and the more sure I became, the easier it was to pick the signal up. It was definitely there, and it wasn’t even really a
pull
as such. The best way I can describe it would be to say that it was like a beacon, pulsing, letting me know it was there. I remember standing still, becoming drawn in to the hunting sensation (that’s what it was now, a hunt, instinct taking over for what seemed like an hour; although I found out afterwards, when I checked my watch, that it had been about ten minutes. Anyone could have stolen my stuff; I wouldn’t have noticed) and as I felt that keenness, that almost predatory desire to track down this new quarry, I realised there was a reason a new urgency was descending upon me. It was because the source of
this
signal was
close
. And I could feel it getting closer.

Barely pausing to grab the jacket and helmet (and the bunch of keys that were still in the disc lock, thus ensuring that nothing would be coming out of my ass, at least not courtesy of Dan) I started to run. I wasn’t even thinking—I remember the sensation clearly—but simply loving the experience of not having to analyse every single thought that popped into my head, the blessed relief of knowing that what I was doing had a purpose and that I could operate on pure instinct alone. It was exhilarating. In some ways, it was one of the most happy and thrilling times of my life.