The Tomorrow Code (22 page)

“They swam.” Crowe frowned.

Manderson shook his head. “Crawford was overhead in the helicopter the whole time. He would have seen them on the heat-scope.”

Crawford said, “I saw nothing until they appeared at the end of the wharf.”

“Underwater!” Crowe realized.

“But they had no air tanks when we picked them up,” Manderson noted.

Crowe said, “Get some men back to the island. Search around the wharf.”

Evans said suddenly, “Skipper, the mist!”

Crowe swung around back to the wall of fog in front of them. It was glowing.

“What the hell…?” Manderson drawled.

Crowe wasted no time. “All teams, seal masks and get up here now. Set your fields of fire and kill zones. Be ready for anything.”

Jackboots sounded all around them as the members of Red and Blue Teams fanned out across the road, dropping to one knee or even lying on the roadway, their special-issue XM8 automatic weapons trained on the glowing mist.

The glow slowly split in two and gradually resolved itself into two distinct lights, brightly luminescent in the mist.

“It’s a car!” Crawford said.

“No,” Crowe said, “the lights are too large, too far apart. It’s a truck.”

It was crawling toward them. Just rolling slowly forward through the mist. The lights brightened, yard by yard.

The dark bulk of the truck gradually materialized through the ethereal white clouds. It was big, an eighteen-wheeler.

The long snout of the truck now poked its way out of the wall of the edge of the fog. The name
SLIPSTREAM WARRIOR
was painted in bold lettering across the front of the hood.

“Hold your fire,” Crowe called. “We may have a survivor.”

At a painfully slow crawl, the big truck rolled forward out of the fog, past the
WHANGAREI
sign, and gathered momentum down a short slope before a small bridge across a stream. It was no more than fifty or sixty yards in front of them now.

“They’re not in a hurry, are they,” Evans murmured.

“Stay alert,” Crowe ordered.

As it turned out, there was no need. For alertness. The truck failed to take the small bridge on a mild bend in the highway. It never turned. It never tried to turn. It just rolled forward in a dead straight line and hit the railing of the bridge on an angle.

The concrete wall of the bridge disintegrated under the impact of the massive truck, and the juggernaut toppled slowly off the side of the bridge and crashed down, nose-first, into the small stream below.

The back wheels of the cab and the large trailer remained on the highway. The wheels of the truck continued to grind for a few seconds; then it stalled with a huge shudder that ran through the body of the truck like that of a dying animal and was still.

“Crawford, Manderson,” Crowe said tersely, “check it out.”

The two men ran in a crouch over to the dead body of the beast, sliding down the embankment beside the bridge and peering in through the shattered windshield of the truck.

“It’s empty.” Crawford’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “No driver.”

“Stranger and stranger,” Crowe said.

“Around here, if you ask me, ‘strange’ is pretty normal,” Manderson said.

Crawford spoke again, his voice suddenly low and serious. “Crowe, you’d better come and look at this.”

“Evans, don’t take your eyes off that fog,” Crowe said, running across to the edge of the broken bridge. Crawford and Manderson were crouched over something on the bank of the stream. Crawford turned and looked up at him, and then he could see past the man, to the object they were crouching over. It was a body.

Crowe slithered down the embankment and splashed through the stream to where the other two crouched. His heart wrenched. It was the body of a small boy, half in the water, faceup in the mud. The body was covered in mud, and it was incredible that even the eagle-eyed Crawford had spotted it.

The boy couldn’t have been more than four. It was all Crowe could do to say, “Get the body back to the lab.”

Manderson said, “Let me do it,” and Crowe remembered that Mandy had a five-year-old son of his own. More than any of the others, he would be feeling the anguish of the little boy’s death.

Manderson stowed his weapon and carefully, respectfully, worked his hands into the mud underneath the neck and knees of the tiny body. He lifted and the body came free of the mud with a sucking sound.

The boy opened his eyes, took one look at Manderson’s black suit and face mask, and screamed his little lungs out.

A police doctor went back in the ambulance with the boy. They still called him “the boy” because he had been unable to tell them his name.

He had done nothing but scream until the ambulance had arrived. The U.S. Army Bioterrorism Response Force soldiers in their black combat biosuits must have looked a fearsome sight to a half-drowned, terrified four-year-old.

So far, he was the only known survivor of the calamity that had embraced the city, but as an eyewitness he was useless. Only two coherent words had come from the terrified little boy the entire time, and they made little or no sense at all.

“Jerryfish,” the boy had screamed over and over. “Jerryfish! Jerryfish!” and “Snowmen!”

The “jerryfish” was the most confusing. It seemed he was saying “jellyfish,” but there was no rationale in that. Jellyfish were saltwater creatures and the boy had been found in a freshwater stream.

But the word “snowmen” had Crowe worried. A white biosuit could be mistaken for a snowman, particularly by a young boy. If he had seen terrorists in biosuits, that could well explain the “snowmen.”

“It’s starting to drift,” Manderson noted.

Already the
WHANGAREI
road sign had disappeared into the maw of the mist.

“I noticed,” Crowe replied. “It’s coming south. Get the men ready to evac.”

“A bit strange, don’t you think?”

“Strange, why?”

Manderson looked at him oddly. “The breeze is nor’east, Stony.”

Crowe peered up at the leaves on the branches of some nearby trees. It was true, he realized with a profound horror. The fog was coming south.

But the wind was blowing the other way.

O
N
C
HRISTMAS
D
AY

It was half past nine
in the morning. On Christmas Day.

The Christmas tree sat in the corner of the middle lounge, the largest of the three. It was a tall tree, perfectly shaped in the traditional Christmas tree cone, with deep green needles—or were they leaves?—and a dark wooden trunk scored with the intricate and random patterns of bark. It was a luxurious tree—vibrant, exciting, larger than life—that embodied the spirit of Christmas in its very form.

And it was made in China, according to the not-quite-covered-up sticker on its base. Aluminum, fiberglass, and plastic, if you cared to read the small print.

“Be there in a moment,” Tane’s mum called cheerily from the kitchen, busy with some final putting-away.

They had all helped clear away the remnants and dishes of the champagne breakfast, which was a Christmas morning tradition in the Williams household and happened before the presents were opened. They all helped; that was part of the tradition also. Even Rebecca.

It was the first time that Rebecca had spent Christmas morning at Tane’s house. Her mum’s cousin had come and picked her up, but Rebecca had asked to go to Tane’s and nobody had minded.

Tane thought it was strange to be having a day of celebration with all that was going on—quarantine zones, kidnappings, nationwide police hunts, and so on—but it seemed even stranger
not
to celebrate Christmas, and certainly it would have raised some tricky questions with his mum and dad if they had decided not to show up.

His mum wandered in at last from the dining room and found an empty armchair.

“Right, then,” she said. “Who’s the youngest?”

That was another Williams family tradition. The youngest person would play Santa Claus and hand out the presents to the others, starting from the oldest person. As there were no grandparents or young cousins this time, that made his dad the oldest and Tane the youngest. Rebecca shared his birthday, but she had been born in the morning and Tane had been born in the evening.

Tane didn’t answer. He was too busy watching the spider. It was a big one. Not huge like an Avondale spider or a tarantula, but big enough to be scary. It was brown with an elongated body and thick, sectional legs. It had woven an intricate web in the corner of one of the large picture windows of the middle lounge, a tightly woven web, almost honeycomb in appearance, with many layers of strands on top of other layers.

The spider was quivering, shaking. He had never seen a spider do that before. A thin band of white crossed over the dark brown body. It struggled to move, and he suddenly realized what was happening. The spider had become trapped in its own web.

“Tane’s the youngest,” Rebecca said brightly, showing no sign of the worry that must surely be festering inside.

Tane hunted in the pile of brightly wrapped parcels until he found something with his dad’s name on it.

“Merry Christmas,” he said jovially, making a bit of a performance of the handover. His dad grinned and snatched it off him, scanning the tag to see who it was from and ripping off the paper with gusto. It was a book, the latest John Grisham thriller, from his uncle in Wellington.

His dad laughed now, for no real reason. Just the joy of the day.

If only he knew!

Tane was already rummaging for a present for his mum. His mind was elsewhere, though, and he skipped over one a couple of times before noticing it.

He found a present for Fatboy from Rebecca, and then one for Rebecca, from Fatboy.

Fatboy’s present to Rebecca was a silver necklace. Tane didn’t look at it too closely, but it looked expensive. Still, with over a million dollars still earning them interest in their trust account, what was money anyway? It was the thought that counted, and he hoped that Rebecca would realize the effort that had gone into the present Tane had chosen for her—the chess set.

She still hadn’t opened it, saving it till last probably, because it was the biggest. Or maybe, he hoped, because it was from him.

He opened Rebecca’s present slowly. It was delicately, femininely wrapped in layers of colored tissue, bound by ribbons. That wasn’t like her at all. Maybe they had wrapped it in the shop for her, he thought. Inside the wrapping was a white cardboard box. He pulled the top off carefully and stared down at what was inside.

It was a brand-new harmonica. Engraved on the silver top of the instrument were the words
FRIENDS FOREVER
.

He gave Rebecca a hug, with a warm feeling that went from his toes up to the hair of his scalp.

His parents’ presents for him and his brother were the same, he realized as he opened his. Fatboy had opened his a few moments earlier. It was a genuine hand-carved
patu pounamu,
a greenstone club, almost a foot long with a leather cord through one end, carved with traditional symbols of their Tuhoe tribe.

“Goes with the
moko,
don’t you think?” Fatboy said proudly.

Tane put his carefully to one side, conscious of the close scrutiny of his parents. It was a kind of cool present, but he had been hoping for a new Xbox console. He forced a smile.

“Thanks, Mum, Dad, it’s great!”

Rebecca came over and sat next to him as she unwrapped the chess set. Tane crossed his fingers behind his back.

It was a hit.

Rebecca actually squealed with delight as the paper fell away. She slid the wooden case out of its plastic covering and pulled each piece individually out of its velvet casing, noticing the fine detail of the replications.

She even held up the king, Michelangelo’s
David,
to show the rest of the room. “Look at the detail!” she exclaimed. “You can see every muscle on his tummy. And what a tiny willy.”