‘Please. Summon your energy, Doctor. Summon your strength. Talk to me. The cure. Did you succeed?’
No reply.
Cloke sighed and sat back. He glanced at Sicknote. The man was petrified. He was staring past Cloke, shocked rigid by what he saw.
Cloke felt hot, fetid breath on the back of his neck. He slowly turned.
Exposed muscle. Knotted tumours. Bared teeth.
‘Jesus,’ he murmured. ‘Galloway.’
Cloke was lifted clean off his feet. He tried to scream, but a hand clamped round his throat and cut off all sound. His legs danced in the air.
Sicknote watched from the shadows. He squirmed deeper into darkness. He suppressed a terrified giggle.
Cloke fought to release the hand wrapped round his neck. He punched. He strained. He choked as fingers dug into his larynx.
He looked down at the skinless, grinning skull-mask.
He shoved a hand in his pant pocket and retrieved a cyanide cylinder. He struggled to unscrew the cap with his thumb and forefinger.
Galloway slammed Cloke’s head against the wall. The cylinder fell to the floor. Brass chimed as it hit cement. The glass ampoule smashed, spilling droplets of amber liquid.
Sicknote squeezed his eyes shut and clamped hands over his ears. He sobbed. He bellowed ‘White Christmas’ to drown choking screams that reverberated from the plant room walls.
51
Galloway.
No longer human. A grotesque mess of metallic sarcomas and rotting, peeling flesh.
The creature hauled Cloke through the pipe.
It stopped. It listened to voices from the distant plant room.
Door slam. Shouts.
Hours ago, Galloway would have understood words, emotions. He would have recognised Tombes and Lupe, understood their anger and fear. But the insect intelligence behind his eyes simply heard human vocalisations at high volume. Alien animal barks.
Shadow and seclusion.
The creature’s vision cut through the tunnel darkness. It crouched over the prone man and surveyed every pore, inspected every bead of sweat, every fleck of blood. It caressed Cloke’s face and examined fingers wet with tears.
Cloke scrabbled at the tunnel wall. A chunk of brick. He gripped it in his fist and struck out, wild blows flung in total darkness, missing their target. Galloway watched the man flail with detached fascination.
Cloke adjusted his grip, drew back his arm and attempted to deliver a skull-crushing punch. He put all his strength into the blow. Galloway twisted his head to avoid the impact. Cloke’s fist slammed into the tunnel wall, breaking fingers.
Cloke lay back and sobbed. Galloway crouched over him, and studied the physiology of fear. Grotesque facial contortion. Eyes wide, pupils dilated with adrenalin. Cloke’s mouth pulled down like he was cartoon sad. A howling monkey-jabber of mortal terror.
The creature copied the sound. It emitted a harsh, braying cackle that reverberated in the tight space and echoed deep into the tunnel system.
Cloke thrashed as he was dragged across brickwork. He was drawn further into darkness, further from help. Mortar, sharp as coral, shredded his clothes. Fingers ripped and bloody, abraded to bone as he fought to grip the tunnel walls.
‘Stop,’ gasped Cloke. ‘Think. Remember who you are. You’re Galloway. Jim Galloway.’
The monstrous thing paused and turned. It leaned close like it was drinking the scent of fear.
‘Kill me,’ said Cloke. ‘Come on. Kill me now.’
The creature raised a hand.
‘Do it. Get it done.’
The hand slammed into Cloke’s belly. Talons broke skin. Cloke convulsed. He arched his back and screamed.
‘Oh dear Jesus.’
The creature drove a twisting fist into Cloke’s gut, tearing muscle, ripping skin. Cloke choked as his diaphragm was compressed, forcing air from his lungs.
‘Motherfuck.’
The arm pushed elbow-deep into a slurry of intestines, tearing the wound wide. Cloke’s scream turned to a blood-spray gurgle. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’
Galloway leaned over the gaping wound and slowly forced his head inside.
52
Lupe examined the conduit mouth. Blood and strands of fabric hung from torn wire.
She shone her flashlight into the pipe. Brickwork receded to deep darkness.
‘Maybe we should go after him,’ said Tombes.
‘Think he’s still alive?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Why take Cloke?’
‘Because he was the healthiest specimen, at a guess. Ekks is half dead and Sicknote has mush for brains.’
Tombes crouched beside Ekks.
‘Is he injured?’ asked Lupe.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
Lupe shone her flashlight into the corner of the room. Sicknote huddled in shadow, rocking back and forth.
Lupe waved a hand in front of his face. She snapped fingers.
‘Hey. Sick. Can you hear me?’
She shook his shoulder. No response.
She crouched.
‘Dude. What happened to Cloke? Can you tell me what happened?’
Sicknote slowly raised his head and met her gaze. A twisted, sour smile. Then his eyes lost focus like he was looking through and beyond her.
‘He’s zoned out.’
‘Can’t we give him something?’ asked Donahue. ‘A shot to chill him out?’
Lupe shook her head.
‘The seizure will pass. Then we can find out what actually happened in here.’
Donahue climbed the steps to the street entrance. She stepped over broken bodies. Bone-chips crackled underfoot. She left boot prints in puddles of coagulating blood.
She pulled on a respirator and adjusted straps. She pulled on gloves.
She checked the gate, rattled the cuff and chain. Secure.
She shone her flashlight into the alley.
Rain had turned to snow. A silent cascade of plump flakes. Asphalt carpeted white. The wrecked motorbike already veiled by a growing drift. The scattered bodies in front of the gate, the frozen screams, clawing hands, sightless eyes, dusted with ice.
The snow was flecked with ash. Particulates from the cinder cloud that still hung over the city like a shroud. Cremated buildings, cremated people. Prevailing winds would already have swept radioactive nucleotides inland, scattering lethal toxins across the Midwest.
She listened to the growling rubble-roar of a distant Midtown mega structure folding in a titanic avalanche of concrete and girders. The iron gate rattled in its frame. Donahue placed a hand on the stairwell wall and felt the tremor slowly subside.
‘How’s it looking?’ called Lupe, from the foot of the stairwell. ‘What’s it like out there?’
Donahue pulled the polythene curtain back in position. She descended the steps. She took off her respirator and gloves.
‘Want to build a snowman?’
‘Shit.’
‘Turning into a blizzard. Better wrap up warm. This place will get cold as a meat locker soon enough.’
Donahue loaded a hypo with 15mg Diazepam, slapped Sicknote’s arm and sunk the needle. His panting breath slowed to steady, gentle inhalations. He closed his eyes and blissed.
A dried trickle of blood down the side of his neck. Donahue gently turned his head and examined the wound.
‘Bitten?’ asked Lupe.