Contagion (Toxic City, #3)(24)

The sun was high and hot. London was warm, but the usual humid, acidic stink of the city was absent now. She could smell only rot and death, and when she blinked she saw Nomad's expressionless face as the woman killed her.

Breezer appeared at the warped door opening in the larger container, stepping out grim-faced. Jack pushed Miller's wheelchair out behind him and let it roll down the ramp on its own. Miller slowed to a halt and looked up at the sky. He looked different. More whole.

“Jack doesn't look too happy,” Jenna said.

“Sparky,” Lucy-Anne said, holding out her hand. “Help me up, mate. Leg's gone to sleep.” He reached for her and held her upright, and she knew that he knew that her leg was fine. She just wanted the contact.

“Your hair needs dyeing again,” Sparky said.

“I only did it a week ago.” They looked at each other, dumbfounded, as time struck them both. A week ago they'd still been living outside London, ignorant of much that was occurring inside the toxic city, full of rebellion and a need to understand. In her mind her family was still alive, and in Sparky's was the hope that he might see his brother again one day. All those hopes were now dashed, and so much had happened that they were both changed people. They'd never be the same again. Beyond London now seemed as distant and mysterious as the city had once been.

“Fuck me,” Sparky whispered.

“Yeah,” Lucy-Anne said. She nodded towards Jack.

Jack was gesturing them over. He looked around at the piled containers, alert for trouble. Probably looking for that Fleeter girl, Lucy-Anne thought. She'd only known her for an hour or two, but already she didn't like her.

“I've helped him,” Jack said. “After all he's done, I healed three broken ribs, eased the pain of his ruptured eye, reset his jaw. I stopped a bleed in his left lung, and dispersed a blood clot that was moving towards his heart.” He stood beside Miller and waited until they had gathered around. Only Rhali stayed away at the other side of the clearing. “And I've told him that this is what he'll be destroying. What I can do, and what so many others can do as well.”

Miller was shifting in his chair, and at first Lucy-Anne thought he was crying. But then she heard the terrible sound of laughter.

“But he doesn't care,” Breezer said.

“Tell him to do what we want!” Sparky said. “That thing Guy Morris could do, you know. Whisper it in his ear! Can't you do that?”

“I tried,” Jack said.

Miller's laughter burst into loud, hearty guffaws. He groaned in pain as well, but the discomfort seemed to humour him even more. “Your father would thank you for healing some of what he's done to me,” he said. “More for him to torture next time!” His one good eye was rolling in its socket, leaking a pale pink, bloody fluid.

“He's mad,” Lucy-Anne said.

“I can belt it out of him,” Sparky said, stepping forward with his fist raised.

“No,” Lucy-Anne said. “I mean he's really mad. Insane.”

Jack nodded. “Maybe that's why I can't get through to him.”

Miller looked back over his shoulder at Jack, then at Sparky standing in front of him, fist still raised. “Ohhh, don't hurt me!” he shrieked, cackling, wiping bloody tears from his cheeks.

“Bloody hell,” Sparky said. His shoulders slumped.

“So what now?” Lucy-Anne asked.

“Now we all die,” Miller said. “Boom! Big Bindy!” He pointed at Lucy-Anne. “You die.” He jabbed a finger at Sparky. “Blondie dies.” And across at Rhali. “That brown bitch dies, too.”

Jack turned to strike him, but he was too late. Lucy-Anne moved quickly, flowing forward and bringing her fist around. She'd always been ready with a punch, even before Doomsday and the strain it had put her under, but this was the first that ever felt truly righteous. She felt the solidity of his cheekbone beneath her knuckles, and heard the creak of his neck as the blow turned his head to the side. It stopped his vile utterances and his laughter, and the silence following the punch was almost peaceful.

“Yeah,” Sparky breathed softly.

“Come on,” Jack said. “Let's leave him to his bomb. We're getting out of here.”

“Leave me?” Miller asked. His voice was fluid with blood. “You're not leaving me. You've saved me.” He lifted his right hand and flexed his mended fingers, turning his hand this way and that as if it were something precious. “Oh, thank you, Jack,” he said. For the first time, his voice sounded almost normal.

As he reached down into his clothing Lucy-Anne was already moving, pulling Sparky down with her, shouting, “Get down!” Perhaps Jack could have flipped like Fleeter and prevented what happened next. That he didn't could have been down to surprise, or maybe it was something darker. Maybe he really didn't want to.

With the hand Jack had fixed, Miller lifted a gun and pressed its barrel into his mouth. His final mad chuckle was swallowed by the gunshot, and by then Lucy-Anne had looked away. But she still heard the wet patter of Miller's tortured mind scattering across the ground.

There was silence for a few moments. The gunshot echoed away, and somewhere in the distance a flock of birds took startled flight, complaining at the sky.

“Right,” Sparky said shakily. “So Miller's probably not going to help us.”