Contagion (Toxic City)(5)

“Some of them deserve to die,” Rhali said. She fell silent, watching daylight dawn with Jack. He waited with her until she was ready to continue, and then pulled her closer when she did. She sounded so cold that he thought she could use some warmth.

“I'd met a boy called Jamie. Soon after everything went bad. He was nice, just as lost as me. We travelled to the south, intending to try to get out, and heard about what had happened to others doing the same. We decided to try anyway. But when we got close, we saw the bodies. They'd put them on display. And every one had…had…they'd taken their brains.” She shivered, and Jack pulled her close. “There were a lot more people back then. Already I could sense something, though I was confused, didn't yet know what it was. Movement, drifting, like smoke in the night. Jamie and I waited there for a couple of weeks, and then they started bombing and burning. Making their exclusion zone around the city. There was smoke and fire for days. So we turned north again, and that's when they caught us.”

Something moved out in the street, and Jack felt Rhali stiffen against him.

“Hey,” he said. “It's just dogs.” One big Labrador trotted along the street, and several more dogs followed. The pack was lean and strong, feral, displaying none of the playfulness of pets. Another sadness.

“They killed Jamie,” Rhali said. “He struggled a bit, and they pushed him against a wall and shot him. Then they took me and asked me what I could do. I thought…I thought they were going to kill me too. I wanted them to. I swore and fought and scratched, and they hit me. Next thing I knew I was in the back of a truck, and he…Miller, that bastard, was sticking needles in me. Taking blood. I kicked him, and he jabbed me a few times just out of spite.”

Jack imagined holding a gun to Miller's head. He'd done that just several hours previously, and Sparky had reminded him of who he was. Now I've killed anyway, Jack thought, and he wished Miller had been the first.

“What could Jamie do?” he asked.

“I never knew,” Rhali said. “I'm not sure he did, either. He died right at the beginning.”

“What a waste.” Jack sat up and pulled her with him, and something made him hug her tight, both arms around her and holding her close. She hugged back, hard. There was a desperation there, and a need to hold and feel someone who was still human. So many people Jack had concerned himself with seemed to have left humanity behind—Miller, the Superiors. Reaper, who had once been his father. What a waste.

“Suppose I should have warned you he was a fast worker,” Sparky said, jumping onto the bed, laughing. Rhali pulled away, and for the first time Jack heard her laugh. It was muffled by tears. He hadn't been aware that she was crying. He was surprised to find that he was, too. He was relieved at the interruption, but knew that he and Rhali would talk more. She had more to tell.

“You two okay?” Jenna asked. She appeared beside them carrying two cans of Coke. They'd found a stash out back, and though flat they were perfectly drinkable.

“Oh, just bloody dandy,” Jack said. They all laughed then, and it was a release of tension. Jack wondered whether anyone or anything out in the streets heard, and right then, caution be damned, he hoped they did.

It might be the last laughter London ever heard.

Nomad had come here to see, but wished she hadn't.

The museum had been sealed against intrusion. Its lower windows were smashed, but no one had made it past the metal security grilles. She closed her eyes and opened three sets of doors, and her nose bled as she entered.

It was musty inside, and sparse. The reception area looked as new as the day it was built. Beyond, the main display hall was vast, and filled with the green and grey of war machines. They stood on plinths, on the floor surrounded by chain boundaries, and hung from the roof structure on strong cables. All of them were frozen in falsely peaceful poses, but each exuded violence. All built to destroy.

And there were traps everywhere.

Just inside the doors was a network of fine trip wires. Above, metal vats painted the same war-colours contained a mix of lethal compounds. Almost without thinking, Nomad knew what they could do. When tipped, their contents would mix and haze into a corrosive gas. Flesh would liquefy. Eyes would melt. Lungs would burn, and anyone in the area would die in suffocating agony.

There were pressure pads on the staircases. She probed further, and found the explosives they were linked to. Small charges—they didn't want to bring the building down—but enough to blow the legs off their intended victims, and perhaps gut them.