Culver took her hand and led her towards the beginnings
of the wrecked bridge. The others followed and began to climb, Fairbank giving assistance to Ellison in the more difficult places.
'Keep away from anything that's loose,' Culver warned. 'Some of this junk doesn't look too solid.'
The smell of oil and rusting metal was everywhere, but it was a relief from the other odours they had been aware of that day. Culver chose the easiest route he could find, wary of touching anything unstable.
The climb was arduous in the damp heat, but not difficult. Soon they were on a level section, overlooking the continuation of the road they had just left. Culver paused, giving Kate a chance to rest and allowing the others to catch up.
Below, the wide roadway curving slightly with the river was jammed with scorched, immobile traffic.
Another road, equally wide, veered off to the right towards Trafalgar Square. The mist was minimal now, but Nelson's Column could not be seen. Victoria Embankment, running alongside the Thames, was relatively free of debris (apart from vehicles), for the offices on the north side had been set back from the thoroughfare, gardens and lawns between. As expected, the buildings were no more than crushed ruins: the Old War Office, the Ministries of Defence and Technology - all were gone. The Admiralty at the beginning of the Mall should have been visible since nothing obscured the view but, of course, that had vanished too. He briefly wondered if all the works of art in the National Gallery, which was on the far side of Trafalgar Square, had been destroyed beneath the deluge. What significance did they have in the present world, anyway? There would be little time to appreciate anything that was not of intrinsic material use in the years ahead. As he knew they would be, the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, at the end of the road
he faced, had been totally destroyed. Peculiarly, the lower section of the tower housing Big Ben was still erect, sheered off at a hundred or so feet; the top section containing the clockface protruded from the river like a tilted, rock island. And again, surprisingly, only the southern end of Westminster Bridge had collapsed. It defiantly spanned the river, just failing to reach the opposite bank.
The sun's fierce rays sucked up moisture from the Thames, so that it looked as if the water were boiling. Somehow it appeared to him that here were the intestines of the city's torn body, exposed to the light and still steaming as all life gradually diminished. Masts of sunken, ancient boats, those that had been converted into smart bars and restaurants, jutted through the rolling mist. Pleasure boats, their surfaces and passengers charred black, drifted listlessly with the current, the longboat funeral pyres of a modern age. A stout wall, still unbroken, lined the riverbank, and the waterline was high, lapping over the small quaysides that were situated near the broken bridge. Much of the gardens on the other side of the road from the Embankment wall were buried beneath fallen office blocks, but here and there a tree stuck through the debris, protected from the worst of the blast by the very buildings shattered around them, leaves washed clean of dust by the constant rain, and flourishing under the humid conditions. Culver's eyes moistened at the sight.
Someone tapped his arm. Dealey pointed into the distance. 'Look there, you can just see it as the road curves.'
'D'you want to tell me what I'm looking for?'
'Don't you see it? A small, rectangular shape set in the pavement quite near the river wall.'
Culver's eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve got it. Like a tiny blockhouse, is that what you mean?'
That's it. That may get us inside the shelter.'
Culver shook his head. So many everyday sights, ignored, not even wondered at, all part of the big secret. He recalled mild curiosity when coming upon the odd ventilation shafts around the city, but always assuming they were for the Underground railway system or low-level car parks. It was only when viewed subjectively that they obtruded from the general background and took on a special significance - like the stockade over the Kingsway telephone exchange and the one they now stood over, crushed beneath Hungerford Bridge. He supposed the art of concealment was to make something commonplace, unnoticeable.
'Let's get to it,' he said and, containing their eagerness, they scrambled down from the wreckage.
The going was easier once they were on the ground, only human remains, carrion for colonies of feverishly crawling things, marring their progress. They had still not become used to the legions of insects, but fortunately the swarming droves were concentrated on less resistant entities.
They were passing over a long grating set in the pavement, when Fairbank brought them to a halt He knelt, peering down through the iron slats.
'Listen!' he said.
The others knelt around him and saw there were thick pipes running horizontally a few feet below ground level.
"What are they?' Kate asked, slightly out of breath.
Dealey told her. 'Ventilation pipes, conduits containing cables, wiring. The complex is directly below us.'
Fairbank hushed them again. 'Listen!'
They held their breath and listened.
It was faint, but definite. A humming vibration.
'Generators!' Ellison proclaimed excitedly.
They looked at each other, a gleaming in their eyes.
'Jesus, they're functioning.' Fairbank was triumphant. There are people down there!'
He and Ellison let out whoops of glee.
'I told you,' Dealey said, surprised at their outburst, but smiling nevertheless. 'I told you this was the main government headquarters. Didn't I tell you that?'
You told us that.' Kate was laughing.
Wait!' Culver held up a hand. 'Is it me, or is the sound getting louder?'
The group listened more intently, Fairbank putting his ear against the grille. 'Seems like the same pitch to me,' he commented after a few seconds. He twisted his head to look up at Culver.
But Culver was watching the sky.
The others noticed and followed his gaze.
The humming became a drone, a sound different from the one below them, and the drone grew louder.
There!' Culver stabbed a finger at the sky.
They saw the aeroplane at once, a dark smudge in the hazy sky, flying low from the west. Slowly, as if sudden movement would disperse the image, they rose to their feet, their faces upturned and with stunned expressions, none of them daring to speak.
It was Dealey who broke the silence, but only with a whisper. 'It's following the river.'
The aircraft was drawing nearer and Culver saw it was small, light.
'A Beaver,' he said, almost to himself.
The others looked at him in puzzlement, then quickly returned their gaze.
'An Air Corps Beaver spotter plane,' Culver expanded. 'On bloody reconnaissance - it has to be!'
The tiny aircraft was almost over their heads. Fairbank and Ellison began to shout as one, waving their arms to attract the pilot's attention. The others instantly joined in, leaping in the air, running back along the Embankment in a vain attempt to keep up with the machine, calling at the top of their lungs, flapping their arms, desperate to be noticed.
'Can he see us, can he see us?' Kate was clutching at Culver. 'Oh God, make him see us!'
Then it was gone, taking their spirits with it. They watched until it became a smudgy speck. They waited until it could no longer be seen.
'Shit, shit, shit!' Fairbank.
'He couldn't miss us!' Ellison.
'He may not have spotted us through the mist.' Dealey.
'It's clearer here. There's a chance.' Culver.
Weeping. Kate.
Culver put an arm around her shoulders, hugging her close. 'It doesn't matter whether he did or not.