Lola points the way forward. ‘Down here.’
They run on, pass through the main gate. There are no guards around and the boom has been smashed by a speeding vehicle, which, it would seem, then exploded and burned the guardhouse to the ground. The place is all but deserted. Two vehicles lie smouldering on the road that cuts through the studio, another three buildings are well alight from vehicles that have exploded nearby, and a smattering of people mill around, dazed and confused. No one tries to stop them, no one even tries to speak to them.
‘Is it much further?’
Lola leads them onwards. ‘Almost there. So, tell me, how did you end up with this counteragent?’
‘Well, right after the CNN building collapsed we saw a school bus…’
30
Kilroy drags himself clear of the godforsaken tyre. It took much longer than he expected. Pushing the damn thing over his elbows proved to be the hardest part.
He reaches into his jacket pocket for his phone. Not there. ‘Shit!’ He left it in the car. He searches for his walkie-talkie. He knew there was a possibility the mobile phone system might crash after the Swarm was released so he’d prepared a back-up plan. All members of the crew were given a small, hand-held Midland walkie-talkie, chosen for its thirty-kilometre range.
It’s gone. What the hell happened to it?
The Atlantis 4 boys, no doubt.
‘Pricks.’
Hopefully his iPhone is still in the car, in one piece.
He pulls himself up, moves through the parking garage stiffly, his back aching, and exits to see what is left of both cars. Not much. They are burned up, almost unrecognisable. His iPhone is clearly toast. Now he’s going to have to find a payphone to call Bunsen. A working payphone? In LA! Even on a good day, when the city isn’t in chaos, that’s an all but impossible task.
He sets a course for Santa Monica Boulevard. It’s not that far away and seems like a good place to start looking.
31
Lola punches through the thick layer of smoke which blankets the Twentieth Century Fox backlot and sprints past a large sound stage. Corey and Spike are right behind her.
Corey just told Lola everything that happened today, from the dying guy in the ambulance to the old ponytailed mofo in the Prius to the chainsaws in the police station. Only by saying it out loud did he realise how much he’d been through, and how bonkers it was. It’s not what he expected when he woke up this morning.
‘How much longer?’ He really wants to be on his way to Moreno High School as quickly as possible, hopes this detour isn’t a wild goose chase.
‘Almost there. This way.’ Lola ducks down a narrow walkway that cuts between two towering buildings. She seems to know exactly where she’s going and what she’s doing, which alleviates his concern a little.
They reach the end of the walkway and run towards another long building, about half the size of the sound stages. Lola leads them to the main door and works the handle. It’s locked. She knocks. No answer. ‘We need to get in here —’
Corey hits the door just above the handle with the heel of his boot and the door flies open. Lola is impressed. ‘Well, okay then.’
They enter the pitch-black room. Lola reaches out, feels along the wall for a light switch, touches something that resembles a button and presses it. Instead of lights blinking on, a large roller door at the far end of the room clanks, then rolls towards the roof. Blazing light spills inside and illuminates the machine in the centre of the room.
Corey stares at it, astonished. ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me.’
Spike barks.
Corey has to stop himself from answering the dog and confirming that they aren’t seeing things. The Australian knows he needs to get moving, needs to help Judd, but he’s frozen in place.
It’s his Loach.
Or at least a perfect replica of his Huey OH-06 helicopter, nicknamed ‘Loach’ after its designation LOH (Light Observation Helicopter) during its service with the US Army in Vietnam.
Corey turns to Lola, opens his mouth to say something, but nothing emerges. He is gobsmacked.
Lola speaks instead. ‘It’s the hero car from the Atlantis 4 movie — except, it’s not a car, obviously.’
‘But — how?’
‘Remember the guy you spoke to on the phone a while back? The one with all the questions? “We emailed him those photos you had in your wallet? Well, he’s in charge of art design on the Atlantis 4 movie. Anyway, we represent him, so I took a personal interest in the project, wanted to make sure they got it right.’
‘Well, they got it right.’
The chopper is perfect. It’s doorless, painted yellow, with ‘Blades of Corey’ emblazoned on the side, and has all the rust and scorch marks just where he left them. He steps forward, studies the fuselage, realises the rust marks are not rust at all, but skilfully applied and coloured plaster. It even has automobile side-view mirrors bolted to each side of the fuselage. It’s uncanny, the attention to detail astounding — and he knows this chopper well. Corey had used it every day of his life for a decade in Central Australia, until it was shot down over the Pacific Ocean by the German hijacker, Dirk Popankin, last year.
He can feel moisture at the corner of his eyes. Jeez. He didn’t realise how much he missed the damn thing. ‘Can it fly?’
‘That’s why we’re here. They started camera tests with it last week.’
Corey peers into the cabin. It’s exactly the same as he remembers, the beaten-up cassette deck under the instrument panel, the old tapes strewn across the floor, everything from Player to REO Speedwagon to Def Leppard, the large loudspeaker attached under the fuselage, the winch with the blue, high-tension rope positioned between the front seats above a rough-cut hole in the floor, an assortment of hooks lying in a perfect copy of his lucky bucket. There’s even the brass telescope in the leather pouch beside the pilot’s seat. Everything’s the same — except for the two parachutes under the rear bench.
‘Parachutes? We didn’t use parachutes.’ Corey had parachuted out of planes a few times in the past, but didn’t enjoy the sensation of freefalling. He’d certainly never jumped out of a chopper.
‘In the latest draft of the screenplay, when the chopper is destroyed and you jump out, you’re wearing a parachute. The studio thought it was more believable. I was going to tell you.’
Corey’s eyes narrow. ‘But we did it without parachutes in real life —’ He catches himself. ‘Forget it, we need to get going.’
He takes in the small helipad beyond the open roller door then slides into the pilot seat and wakes the little chopper’s instrument panel. Gauges spring to life and lights blink on and his eyes find the fuel gauge. The tank is full, which means they have 242 litres of av-gas on board. At one drop of counteragent for every litre of av-gas he can only hope there’s enough in the metal canister. He climbs out of the cabin, unscrews the Loach’s fuel tank cap, taps the code into the canister’s keypad, unlocks the lid, then tips the contents into the tank. He saves a portion, a tenth maybe, which he thinks — hopes — will be enough for it to be analysed, and synthesised, if necessary. He realises how lucky it was that they used the counteragent from Judd’s canister for the chainsaw back at the police station.
Lola watches. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Stand well clear.’ He points to the far side of the room, near the open roller door. She moves there quickly, Spike in tow, and turns to watch.
Corey cranks the Loach’s engine to life. A light clicking emanates from the turbine, then it catches and spools up. He turns and studies the stream of exhaust from the chopper, ready to kill the power if need be. ‘Please-no-purple-please-no-purple.’