So if there were people here recently, where are they now?
If there are survivors, why aren't they making themselves known the way the inhabitants of other settlements always do as soon as the Titanic appears?
Claire spotted Benson standing near the entrance, supervising two sailors as they pushed the metal gates closed.
'What's the problem?' she asked, nodding at the gates.
'Nothing — just a little extra insurance.'
'Against what?'
'Not sure,' said Benson. 'We thought we saw people here on the way in, but they've gone.'
Claire scanned the open space beyond, which continued for several hundred slightly elevated metres to the foot of Broadway, the famous avenue which ran all the way up the island of Manhattan. She knew immediately that the convoy idea would have to be rethought — the road ahead was thick with abandoned vehicles, and was for as far as she could see.
Jeffers was still talking to the ship; as he paced, his every step was repeated by Jonas Jones. The passengers who'd disembarked were milling around, anxious to be on their way. Calvin Cleaver stood off to one side, his bony white hands clutching a small Bible, which he was studying intently. Dr Hill had crouched by one of the smouldering fires. He had picked up a stick and was poking around with it.
Ty came up beside her. 'It's so quiet,' he said. They gazed up towards the city — although now that they were so close they could no longer see the epic skyline they'd been enthralled by on the way in. 'Every Saturday, my dad used to take me downtown — we'd go catch a movie, play in Central Park. It was my special time with him. It was never quiet, always this buzz, always cabs blasting their horns, it was just noisy . . . not like this...' He shook his head. 'Not like this.'
'You know, Ty, you don't have to come with us. If your family are all . . .'
She didn't finish.
Ty sighed. 'Yes. Yes I do.'
And then, almost as if God or someone equally important had been listening, they heard it — a distant, echoing call, something utterly strange in the circumstances but also instantly recognisable.
'That was an elephant,' said Claire.
'Yes it was,' agreed Ty.
The passengers and crew gathered together, alert, as if half expecting to see the mighty creature lumber into view. But nothing moved.
'You know what this means?' Ty whispered. Claire shook her head. 'It means the elephants have taken over the city. They've enslaved the survivors. We have entered the Kingdom of the Elephants.'
'Did anyone ever tell you you're a complete idiot?'
'Many people,' said Ty.
'It probably just escaped from the zoo.'
Ty nodded. 'That makes sense. Elephants have never enslaved anyone. If any creatures have taken over the city and enslaved the humans and set up their own kingdom, it's probably the monkeys. They have thumbs.'
'Right,' said Claire. 'Excuse me.'
She had spotted that Jeffers was off the radio and crouching down by one of the old barbecues, conferring with Dr Hill. She hurried up.
'So, what's the plan?' she asked, sinking to her knees and looking eagerly from one to the other. Dr Hill was turning a charred lump of wood over in his hands.
An exasperated expression swept across the first officer's face. He had never been happy with either Jimmy or Claire tagging along on what were occasionally dangerous missions.
'Well, Claire,' he said, 'if it was up to me, I'd pack you back to the ship.'
'Why, what's happened?'
He took a deep breath. He lowered his voice. 'Well, for one thing, we're going to have to walk most of the way to Newark — that's where this damn factory is — because the roads are impassable to vehicular traffic.'
'That's cars,' said Dr Hill, helpfully.
Jeffers gave him a brief look. 'What it means is that we're going to be here a lot longer than we expected.'
'So what's the problem with that?'
'It means crossing the city. And I don't think it's safe.'
'Why?'
Jeffers' eyes flitted back to Dr Hill. The doctor looked away.
'It's just not,' said Jeffers. 'Not for a large party like this. If we were mobile, if there was just a few of us, we could zip in and out — but some of these guys are old, most of them aren't fit . . . we'll be too slow, we'll be . . .' He looked at Dr Hill again. 'It's just dangerous.'
Claire looked from one to the other. 'I work for the Times, it's the paper of record, it's my responsibility to report what's going on, if you know, you should tell—'
'Enough!' snapped Jeffers. 'I don't want to hear the speech again, Claire. I know why you're here, and I know the captain thinks it's important that you are kept informed. I don't agree, I won't ever agree, but I have no choice.'
'So?'
Dr Hill spoke before Jeffers could respond. 'I think one word will probably cover it, Claire.'
He held up the piece of charred wood, except that now that she looked at it up close it no longer looked like wood.
'Cannibals,' said Dr Hill.
21
Ham
Jimmy entered the mess hall with his head up, shoulders back, eyes front. Though he looked battered, he was determined to show everyone that he was not beaten. But, in fact, 'everyone' was not that interested. The hall was packed with hungry soldiers intent on filling their faces with as much food as they could before another hard day of training. They weren't bothered about one soldier's miserable experience. Many of them had their own hard-luck stories. The din of plates and cutlery was deafening, the chatter incessant. It seemed to be one of the only places in the fort where they were free to let their hair down. Nobody paid him any attention as he joined the queue for food.
He may not have been beaten, but he had changed. Or, at least, he thought he'd changed. He had decided it wasn't fair on his fellow troopers to keep getting into trouble — otherwise they'd all starve to death. And, if he didn't keep his mouth zipped, then attention would remain focused on him, which would make it much more difficult to escape from the fort.
He needed to quieten down, blend in more.
With his plate piled high Jimmy found a space at one of the long trestle tables that filled the hall. The soldiers around him weren't any older, but they had clearly been at the fort for a lot longer; they looked lean and fit and had something of a confident swagger about them. Maybe the training regime here wasn't all bad. Or perhaps they hadn't been trained by Mohican.
As he tucked into eggs and ham, another boy he recognised from his own troop sat down opposite him — clearly by mistake, to judge from the surprised expression on his face when he noticed Jimmy. His immediate response was to look around for somewhere else to sit. But there wasn't anywhere close by, so he decided to make the best of it. He kept his eyes on his food.
'So how's it going?' Jimmy asked.
The boy, with short black hair and round, black glasses, looked up. 'OK,' he said, rather flatly. His eyes darted about to see if anyone was watching.
'What do they call you?'
'Harry Potter.'
'Seriously?'
'My real name's Christopher Carter. But they started calling me . . .' He shrugged. 'Stuck with it now.'