Contagion (Toxic City, #3)(5)
“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.
There were movement sensors everywhere, and even Nomad grew nervous, trying to lessen her movements as she breathed in the old air and tried to weather the pain. Each spread of sensors initiated different responses—she could smell poisons and gases, feel the slick coolness of guns against her palms, hear the echoes of explosions that would occur if she placed one foot wrong.
Her heart felt heavy and cumbersome, her blood slow and thick. I'm not meant to die like this! she thought, but she could not deny the sickness that using her talents made worse. She had seen it in others more and more recently, and now she had it herself. She supposed that was fair.
“Even if I get past everything…” she whispered, then held her breath in case she had missed microphones. Nothing exploded, nothing shot at her. The balance persisted, and she dwelled only briefly on the greater problem.
The bomb was locked inside a tank. She could sense its heat, and its terrible potential.
Even if I reach the bomb, how do I stop it? Sixteen hours, only sixteen, and whatever I do could trigger it. There will be safeguards, triggers, to avoid interference. If I look at it wrong, it might explode. If I breathe on it, touch it, attempt to move it…
Nomad was at a loss. London was hers, even now. But this building was no longer part of London. This was the fate that awaited her city, and to avoid it she had to think beyond the physical.
Filled with doubt, Nomad retraced her steps and left the building. And despite the pain and blood, and the confusion in her ever-more diseased mind, she was careful to seal the entrance doors once again.
“So, what's the plan?” Sparky asked. They'd retreated to the rear of the shop and now sat in the chair circle. It felt unaccountably safe, as if the empty chairs were actually occupied by guardian angels.
Jack looked around at his friends, old and new. It was strange how he felt he'd known Sparky and Jenna a lifetime, instead of just the two years since Doomsday, when being left on their own had drawn them together. But he supposed between then and now was a lifetime.
Sparky, with his spiky blond hair, broad shoulders, gruff attitude and caring heart. He'd lost his brother, but he was weathering the grief well. Jack liked to think their relationship helped. Jenna mourned her father, not dead, but taken from her because of his interest in London's fate. He was half the man he'd used to be. And now Rhali, thinner than she should be, bearing the weight of whatever tortures they had seen fit to subject her to, and yet still beautiful. Every time Jack looked at her his heart skipped a little. It was a feeling he'd never had with Lucy-Anne, and for now he tried not to analyse it too much. There were more urgent matters to deal with.
“Plan?” Jenna asked. “As if.”
“Do what we have to,” Jack said. “Spread the word about the bomb, find Lucy-Anne, get the hell out of London.”
“Easy,” Sparky said. “Piece of cake.” He glanced at Rhali.
“We're assuming Miller wasn't lying about the bomb,” Jenna said.
“We have to,” Jack replied. “Big Bindy, he called it. And Breezer seemed pretty sure he was telling the truth.”
“Breezer being completely trustworthy, of course,” Sparky said.
“I heard them talking about Big Bindy,” Rhali said. “I never figured out who or what it could be. But the Choppers I heard were scared of her. Or it.”
“Makes sense,” Jack said. “Miller and his cronies didn't really know all they were dealing with, even after all this time. They did their best to keep London contained, and that seemed to be working. But if they ever found something, or someone, that might have broken out—become a real threat to the rest of the country, for all they knew—they'd have some way of stopping that.”
“So what's changed?” Sparky asked. He stood, hands held out. No one replied. “I don't mean why did Miller press the button. Reason is, he's a dick. Easy enough. What I mean is, how can anyone get out of London, even if we now have to?”