The Stone Man - A Science Fiction Thriller (49 page)

***

Once I’d checked in, exchanging pleasantries on autopilot with the woman behind the impressive foyer’s desk, I thought once or twice about calling Paul again—I don’t know why, I just felt compelled to do so—but thought better of it. Best to leave him to it; I’d gotten him into this, after all. But if Straub’s people were correct, sooner or later they’d have gotten around to him anyway. I had more than enough guilt on my shoulders that I could give myself the benefit of the doubt on that one.

Once in my luxurious room (and dammit if I wasn’t giving myself the best one), I ordered a pizza—I love them and always have—then ran a bath. I decided to eat the pizza whilst
in
the bath. I correctly thought that it would be great, and half of me was aware that it actually was—noticing how the taste of the food and the physical sensation of the warm soapy water on my skin combined in the most delicious way, made more so by knowing that this was my last meal, and somehow simultaneously not really being able to understand the concept—but the other half was beyond terrified, and held up only by grim determination. I took my time getting dry, watching the news channel and waiting in my fluffy, white, hotel-provided dressing gown. I’d brought the atlas in from the car.

I wondered about the future, and how the country could ever adapt to this. How we could build and rebuild whilst knowing that at any time it could all be taken away … but then I thought that a culture would develop around it. If Straub’s people were right, the people who were sensitive to the Stone Men—those who got the migraines and the shakes, those who passed out—would be the targets of the future. Once word got around, once people knew that the way to protect their own interests was to find and prematurely end the people that the Stone Men wanted, then I thought that people would put two and two together and watch for these physical symptoms … and then God knows what the next step would be. I had visions of camps for potential targets, set up along lines of previous destruction to create safe channels on already ruined land. Witch-hunts carried out by frightened mobs. The country was in for an interesting few years whilst it worked out all the terrible kinks. But a system would come, I was fairly sure.

I thought about friends and loved ones, and realised just how few there were. I pulled out my phone and shut down my Facebook profile, after deciding against posting a final, dramatic status, one vague enough to send an ominous chill, yet indecipherable until news of my death came out and all was made clear. I wanted to, certainly—the drama of it was almost too tempting—but decided that if I was trying to do a dignified thing, then I would be dignified in all respects. Plus, deliberately vague, attention-seeking Facebook statuses are for thirteen-year-old girls.

I didn’t send any individual messages or texts. I thought that it would only get me thinking twice, plus I had no idea how Straub—or more precisely, David and his ilk—were going to spin my death, and I hadn’t totally decided if I would let them … and that’s when I had the idea to record this account. I had time, after all, I thought … I had to know first though. I would know if I was right; I needed that.

I walked down through the hotel foyer in nothing but my dressing gown, acknowledging every astonished face with an insane, cheesy grin and a wave, tears flooding my eyes with near-hysteria. That was a last little pleasure, I’ll admit; despite the situation, it was fun freaking people out. I headed out to the car park, grabbed the Dictaphone from my car’s glove box, and returned to my room, locking the door behind me. The catch slotted home with a heavy-sounding click, reminding me that I would not be passing through that doorway again. I hadn’t lingered in the hallway, nor the lobby; I hadn’t really allowed myself any lingering anywhere, or the taking-in of sights, since this whole thing began. It would have been a bad idea, but lingering in the room was different. That was my space to prepare, and I knew what would and what wouldn’t be dangerous to my resolve.

Not long after that, towel drying my hair, I felt the world tip sideways, and my entire body broke out in goose bumps. The next thing I knew I was regaining consciousness whilst lying on the floor, a line of thick spittle drying on my face.

I didn’t freak out, to my surprise. I wasn’t totally expecting it, being both on the receiving end and, as far as I’d known, cut off, but I wasn’t too surprised either. I
wasn’t
completely cut off then, it seemed. I had at least enough to know when the first one turned up; perhaps all the targets had felt the same thing. Now it would be waiting for its friends, and they were what I wanted to see. I calmly—but shakily—got myself to my feet, and carried on getting ready. I rewashed my face, and had a shave. I would not be rushed.

Shortly after that (once I’d gotten into my best shirt, suit and tie, which with the money I had to spend was saying something. If I was going, I was going smartly, even if I’d be a mess after impact.
I’d
know, that was the thing) the breaking news came through on the TV, interrupting a report on the presidential race in Washington. This was bigger.

The live feed was of a sight that once would have once been familiar, but not anymore. The man-made lake where Millennium Place once stood made the whole area unrecognisable. Further back from the edge of that was the barrier, and beyond that was the usual, spaced-out ring of military vehicles. And of course, near the centre of the water and almost entirely clear of it, the head of the original Stone Man could be seen, the rest of its body concealed below the surface. Its head had no eyes, of course, but in that moment I almost felt that it was looking directly at me, searching through the TV screen and hunting over the airwaves.

My lip started to quiver, but I bit it, hard. I was done crying, and I would not let these things take any more from me. Not one bit. Anger grew in me, a white-hot fist of it growing in my stomach, but I would not lose my composure. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

Not me, fuckface,
I thought.
You don’t get me. This building has eighteen floors, and I’m in the penthouse. Unless you’re outside waiting to catch me on the way down, good luck digging up the bits of what’s left.

This started me laughing, and this time I let it happen. I bit my lip again, though, once the laughter threatened to get out of control, and that would be as bad as crying. I gave the image on the TV the finger, and went to inspect the contents of the mini bar. It looked good, and wasn’t even that mini; this wasn’t a cheap hotel, after all. Being the penthouse, it even came with a full-sized dining table, and it was upon this that I spread the many tiny bottles and snacks. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in there also, but I have to admit that I’ve never really cared for the stuff.

I checked the TV; the Stone Man’s backup still hadn’t arrived. I stared at the Dictaphone, and decided that I’d best turn off the news, if only whilst I got started. Yes, all I was waiting for was the original Stone Man’s Blue backup—and not to try to pick out their targets for Straub, by the way. Yes, I’d give it a go, but I had other reasons—and worried that they might turn up as soon as I turned off the set, but I figured that even if they did, ten minutes wouldn’t hurt. Straub would have everyone on standby by now. So I switched it off. And … I’m stalling, aren’t I? I’m getting near the end and I’m stalling. Oh God.

Right. The last bit that
has
to be recorded, and then I’m done. This isn’t an excuse, either; it needs to be done. I need to make sure Straub knows this before next time, which is stupid, because A, it probably won’t make any difference, and B, if I’ve worked this out then I’m fucking certain that the brain trust that Boldfield runs knows it too. It’s bloody obvious, for crying out loud, simple maths that a child could do, but I couldn’t know for certain until the Blues turned up as well. She’ll already know … but I need to record this so I
know
that she’ll know. Just for my own peace of mind. It’s important to me to know that for once in my goddamned life my mind can maybe, just maybe, be clear at the end. Who knows. We’ll find out.

I could call her, but … that’s the outside world now. I’m in here. I locked the door. Ah, but that’s bullshit, isn’t it, Andy, and now you’re stalling some more, because you already
texted
Straub a few hours ago, so you could have texted her that little piece of info as well, couldn’t you, instead of telling her where to pick up your stupid tape? So why don’t we, Mr peace-of-mind, cut to the chase? Hell, they should have started walking hours ago, you shouldn’t have had time to get this far, so stop pushing it.

Good point me, you dick … so it
is
just stalling. And there’s even more of them this time, so maybe that’s why I’ve had extra time, I don’t know, maybe it takes longer for them to charge up or whatever. But, me stalling? Not without fucking reason! And hell, aren’t I giving up everything? Haven’t I just found out that, actually, I’ll be saving even more lives than I thought? So I’m allowed some fucking slack.

I’m a
storyteller
. Okay? I always have been, and it’s how I earned a living throughout my entire adult life. I lost sight of that a long time ago, and many other things, and this … this is my biggest story. And I want to finish it. I want to tell the whole thing, and do it my way. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. I want to tell all of it, while I have time, and I want to say that I was a part of it, and that I was
here
, and I know that someone will listen to this. I just want that piece of myself back.

So. Earlier, when I said there was something I had to do? You may remember, whoever you are—Straub, if you’re listening—that I said that. Well, that particular thing was sending a text to Straub, because then I had at least one answer. I knew why the Stone Men came to us.

Why they came to take bits of us.

I already had an inkling when I first saw those two Blues, and more so after Target Two’s—no, no, Theresa
Pettifer’s
—baby had died, and the last Blue stopped and disappeared. Back then, I had a number that I’d worked out in my head. It was only very, very basic maths, after all, so when I say ‘worked out’ that makes it sound more complicated than it was. I mean worked out
logically
, more than anything. All I knew was that when the Stone Men returned—if they came back and their total number matched the one that I suspected—then it was pretty certain my suspicion was right. A long while later, when I locked in whilst lying terrified on my bedroom floor in Coventry, I thought I felt something; whether it was because I was a target now, or whether it was the masters
wanting
me to know, I don’t know. Either way, I thought I knew that my theory was right … but still I had to wait for the number, to
check
the number, in order to prove it.

I thought there would be
seven
Stone Men this time.

Several hours ago, looking at the TV screen in this room, I was proved right. The original, plus six Blues this time.

Patrick’s spine, taken by the original Stone Man ... but its chest had come out as two parts when it did, hadn’t it? They’d then merged, taking part of Patrick’s spine ... but then had separated into two parts again as it retracted. Potentially, splitting the spine.

Then, two Blues arrive. So now there’s three Stone Men, with three targets this time. But one target is never reached, as the signal, the pull, is taken away. So only
two
targets are met. They’re harvested, and split into two. So
four
new parts are therefore taken.

So
four
new Blues would arrive this time, along with the original and the first two Blues. Seven.

Whatever the Stone Men are—whatever they’re for, whether they are the puppets of others or a race in themselves—they need us in order to make
more
.

Maybe the original is the race, and the Blues are the puppets, or whether the originals are just
fucking harder to make without the right body parts
, without the right genetic type of spinal cord to run their central nervous system—it doesn’t matter. It’s all speculation, and until we know where they’re coming from we’ll never know. The purpose is the same regardless.

This isn’t an invasion. How could they invade by making a handful of new soldiers every few months, while we reproduce thousands of new versions of ourselves every day? They don’t rush, sure; time is not an issue for them, whereas we run to keep up with it every single day before it runs out. I’m sure they laugh at us for that. But even if they kept it up for millennia, we’d always be making more of us, so they could never fully win. Plus, hell, given that long we’d probably find out a way to smash the fuckers. Besides, to invade is to enter an area for the purpose of seizing it, of taking it over and keeping it, and I don’t think they’re interested in that. Theirs is a long-term plan, and I expect we’ll be seeing Stone Men for a long, long time. They’re only interested in our territory for our people anyway.