Coldbrook (Hammer)(97)

Where am I going? he wondered, but though the voice was his own he tried to ignore it for now. One thing at a time. ‘Jesus, I could do with a shower before I go,’ he said aloud, and he actually giggled. It felt good – but it sounded desperate.

There were canvas bags beneath the canteen counter, used to collect plastic and tins for recycling on the surface. One would be enough. He dropped the sachets inside, added a few small bottles of water, then returned to the common room and lifted the small bar’s flap. He’d all but finished the Penderyn whisky and the next best thing was a bottle of Jameson’s. Sighing, unscrewing the top, taking a long swig. As it burned its way down he remembered that thing’s image.

‘Fuck off,’ Jonah said. ‘Just f*ck off!’ The sounds of movement from the canteen became more frantic, as did their calling. If he left those afflicted in the walk-in fridge for ever, would they always move? The thought was horrific, but he had seen that wrinkled, shrivelled creature that had come through and killed Melinda, and he recognised its age. In ten years or a hundred, whether or not he remained down here, others might venture down to discover where it had all begun, and they might hear the movement of creatures trapped behind the doors he had locked . . .

‘If there’s anyone left,’ he muttered. Since the power had gone out, he’d had no way of following what was happening on the surface. He was delaying what needed to be done, and he knew why – he faced a terrible dilemma.

He could go back through the garage, move the Hummer, and climb up through the ventilation shaft. Follow in Vic’s footsteps, retracing the route this terrible contagion had taken.

Or he could go through the breach.

Jonah smiled. He took another drink, then screwed the lid on and placed the bottle in the canvas bag. There was no decision to be made. He was a scientist, after all. And perhaps the next couple of hours would see him and Holly reunited, and the culmination of his lifetime’s dreams manifest around him.

Jonah knew that he could do nothing more here.

The Inquisitor was waiting for him twenty metres from Control. Jonah dropped the bag and heard the clunk of glass hitting concrete. Don’t break, he thought and fire throbbed in his head. He kept hold of the flashlight and shone it directly at the man who turned, beckoned him to follow, and then disappeared into a perpendicular corridor.

Picking up the bag, Jonah smelled the stench of spilled whisky. The bag leaked. Good Irish dripped across the floor, the sachets of dried food were swollen from the fluid, and Jonah felt a terrible sinking feeling in his gut when he realised how unprepared he really was.

‘Oh, bollocks to it all,’ he said. The gun heavy and useless in his belt, Jonah held on to the wall and swung around into the side corridor, home to a plant room and three storage rooms. It was barely twenty feet long, and at its end stood something that brought Jonah up short, winding him. He tried to breathe, but it was as though the air was gone from Coldbrook. He tried to rationalise what he was seeing, make sense of it, and though the true meaning was clear he could not yet accept it. It would take the Inquisitor and its deft touch to make him accept.

It would take surgery.

It was not a table, or a chair, but something in between. Hanging on hooks suspended from shadows were the elements of Jonah’s new face-to-be: bulbous eyes; a snout; a bristled film to cover his own scalp.

‘It is required that you accept,’ the Inquisitor said.

‘No,’ Jonah said.

‘You will never die.’

Jonah managed to laugh, because the Inquisitor spoke as if he was offering something attractive.

‘Fuck off!’ Jonah could not help looking at those other objects, wondering what they were. He guessed that they belonged inside him.





2


As Holly ran she thought of the horribly scarred man and what his presence might mean. And she wondered just what these people were, to experiment on their one true hope like that – having him bitten by a fury each year to confirm that his immunity persisted. It was monstrous and inhumane, and it chilled her to the core.

They’re the survivors, she thought, but even that was not quite right. Their parents had been the survivors, if their Fury plague really had been forty years ago. Drake and Moira were the survivors’ children, and this was the only world they knew. But that did not excuse them.

She followed the stairs back up to the room where she had been pretending to sleep, and inside she tipped a chair onto its side and heaved at one of the legs. She exerted an even pressure, wanting to break it slowly rather than smash it. She could not afford to be caught and making too much noise could attract unwelcome attention. The leg creaked, she strained harder, and finally it gave with a brief snap. About fifteen inches long, it was easy enough to carry.