'Yes, sir. You're sacrificing me for the good of the company.'
'No, Mr Benson, you're volunteering to sacrifice yourself for the good of the company. Aren't you?'
'Yes, sir.' He turned to go, but immediately turned back. 'Sir, if I always screw things up, how come you're trusting me to do this?'
'Because, Mr Benson, if it comes down to a fight, I want my best sharp-shooters here with me. You couldn't hit a barn door with a cannon from a distance of one metre. Right — off you go. You lead them on, you do your best to lose them. If you make it, you know where the rendezvous point is — we'll see you there in twenty-four hours. Now get moving!'
'Sir!'
Benson darted into the left-hand tunnel.
'Lights out, everyone,' hissed Jeffers. They were plunged into darkness. Jeffers immediately called out as loudly as he dared: 'Not you, Mr Benson!'
'Sorry!' echoed back towards them.
His light blinked on.
'OK, let's move out everyone,' Jeffers whispered. 'Quietly, carefully, and when I give the word, freeze and don't move again until I say so.'
They walked cautiously along the railway tracks, Dr Hill in the lead, the next man with his hand on his shoulder, the next on his, and right back. They didn't make a sound when they stumbled. They bit their lips when something furry brushed their legs. Jeffers stayed right at the back, urging stragglers forward, watching the advance of the cannibals behind. There was nothing as disciplined about their pursuers. They were a tumultuous, ravenous horde.
Jeffers passed the word back and they flattened themselves against the wall as the cannibals reached the entrance to the service tunnel. A dull, metallic hammering reached them — Benson at work, attracting their attention by banging on the tunnel walls. The rest of them held their breath as the cannibals' lights, most from burning torches, flickered in the sudden breeze from the service tunnel. It was the first time Claire had been able to glimpse their pursuers. She was surprised by their appearance. She had imagined crazed, blood- spattered zombies, but they looked so ordinary. Men, women, even children she might quite easily have passed in a supermarket or sat beside in a cinema. Ordinary people, who wanted to have her for dinner.
After a brief hesitation the horde surged into the service tunnel. One by one the lights disappeared as they crowded through the narrow entrance. Soon there were only two distinct lights remaining — one elderly man holding a burning torch and a child in short trousers with a flashlight — and Jeffers was on the verge of ordering them to press ahead, when there was a sudden clattering sound from behind Claire. A moment later a torch, having rolled across the ground and struck the far wall, turned itself on. In the brief moment before Jonas Jones threw himself upon it to block out the light Claire saw Cleaver with his hands raised in abject horror and mouthing the word 'Sorry!'
The old man and the child turned from the service tunnel entrance to look in their direction.
The old man pointed.
The child yelled to the rest of his kind.
'Run!' Jeffers barked.
He grabbed hold of Claire and propelled her ahead of him into the darkness, pushing the other passengers after her.
Cleaver stumbled forward. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . .'
'Just keep going!'
Jeffers and the remaining crewmen held back. They had their guns out and were aiming back down the tunnel towards the cannibals, who were now pouring back out of the service tunnel.
Jonas drew his own weapon and came to join them. But Jeffers quickly sent him away. 'You must press on,' he ordered, 'we'll hold them for as long as we can, but you must reach the factory.'
Jonas raised a hand and saluted. 'Good luck!'
First Officer Jeffers nodded grimly, returned the salute and then turned to join his men. The shooting started a few moments later.
27
Escape
'Cut it! Cut it! Cut it!'
'I am bloody cutting it!' Jimmy hissed.
'Cut it harder!'
They were at the wire fence surrounding Fort Hope. Rain Man had done what he'd promised to do. The generator was down and this was their one chance to escape. Hand-cranked sirens wailed. Officers screamed orders. Soldiers stumbled out of their barracks. It was utterly black. There wasn't even a moon to give them some guidance. It was total chaos, and exactly what they wanted, but it wouldn't last for ever — and they couldn't cut the damn wire and vital seconds were storming past.
With the nurse gone for the night Jimmy and Ronni had gone through the surgical equipment stores in the First Aid hut and found a stout pair of jagged-mouthed scissors which cut cleanly through everything they tried them out on — wood, plastic, iron bed springs — but now that they really needed to work they were absolutely useless.
'Jimmy — do it!'
'I'm doing my best!'
But his best wasn't good enough. Jimmy flung them down. He looked up at the fence — the barbed wire that topped it was thick and razor-sharp, there was no way they'd be able to wriggle through it. Nor could they dig under — the fence was tight against the ground and sealed in with cement.
Ronni pulled at his arm. Jimmy — the gates, we have to go through the gates . . .'
'Too far away — too many soldiers!'
'We have no choice!'
In those last few moments before the lights went out they'd been anxiously scanning the perimeter as far as they could see so they knew the gates had been open then, but the guards' first reaction to the sudden darkness would surely have been to shut them to prevent what must be an enemy attack from penetrating the fort. But Ronni was right — what choice did they have?
They turned and they ran. The gates were easily two hundred metres away. They collided with other soldiers, running about confused. They picked themselves up and charged on. Someone was yelling, 'Protect the President! Protect the President!' Jimmy was sure he heard Mohican's distinctive tones.
They came to the gates.
Open!
There were guards there, dim outlines against the blackness, but not close enough together. And they were facing the wrong way — out.
A better army might have had night-vision glasses and could have shot them dead. But these soldiers couldn't see more than a metre in front of them. Jimmy and Ronni slipped between two nervous sentries.
'You see anything?' one of them hissed. Jimmy could almost feel his breath.
'I can't see nothin', but there is somethin' there.'
'Should we shoot?'
'Not me, I don't give orders!'
'Sir! Somethin' movin' — can we shoot?'
'What is it?'
'Don't know!'
'Where is it?'
'Not sure!'
'Hold your fire!'
Jimmy grabbed Ronni's hand — there was too much chance of losing her in the dark — as they raced away from the fort. Jimmy's legs, so recently sucked of all strength by the river, wobbled beneath him. Ronni had lain largely immobile for weeks and her muscles now strained and threatened to rip apart. But they kept going. The plain seemed to roll on for ever. Their feet, rushing though the knee-length grass, sounded incredibly loud purely because they were trying to be so quiet.
'We . . . must . . . nearly . . .' Jimmy wheezed.
'We . . . have to be close . . .'
And then, as simple as someone flicking a switch, the lights of the fort came on — just bright enough to turn them into running shadows, and they still had a hundred metres of the open plain to cross before they reached the relative safety of the woods.