Final Days (29 page)

He felt hands reach out for him, noticed faces barely distinguishable in the gloom. As he lashed out with his fist, he felt it make satisfying contact with yielding flesh. Someone groaned, but more bodies piled on top of him before he could take another swing.

They were yelling in what might have been Turkish, his contacts struggling to run a translation, but there were too many talking all at once for the software to come up with anything meaningful.

He kicked and struggled, but they had him down, with his face against the floor. One yanked his head back while another thrust a wad of cloth between his jaws, before pulling a bag over his head and securing it tight around his face.

Hands grabbed the back of his coat and dragged him further into the interior of the shop. A boot struck him hard in the ribs and Saul groaned in pain, just before he felt the prick of a needle in his neck. Immediately, dark tendrils of fatigue spread all the way through him, utterly irresistible, dragging him down into a warm and comforting darkness devoid of dreams.

Florida Keys, 5 February 2235

Disappearing turned out to be even easier than either of them might have hoped.

A few days before, Thomas Fowler had procured a set of contacts reple with fake UPs, for both himself and Amanda, from the ASI’s own evidence lockers, along with a substantial amount of black-market cash. They took off together one morning for his beach house down in the Keys, the ocean stretching out on either side of the highway, throughout the whole drive down from the airport at Marathon.

They had spent the next few days making love to the sound of the ocean crashing against the wharf near the house, often waking in the early hours when minor tremors sent plates crashing to the kitchen floor. Ashes from the recent eruptions of Soufrière and Mombacho were carried north on the wind, plastering rooftops and lawns, and turning them all a dull, leaden grey.

They often heard cars whipping by on the highway, as local residents fled, and one morning just before dawn they also heard gunshots, followed by the screech of rubber on tarmac. Fowler had got up and walked out on to the veranda, without turning the lights on, peering either way down the long road that ran parallel to the shore, but he saw nothing.

He dreamed of a faceless figure hunting him through the darkened rooms of the beach house, and when he woke knew he wouldn’t need a psychiatrist to figure out that he feared Donohue being sent after them. But Fowler had gambled that, with the end so very close, they would be safe – or as safe as it was possible to be, given the end of the world was approaching – so long as they didn’t make any attempt to pass through the Array.

The worst of the tremors occurred on their last night in the Keys. The house rocked on its foundations, as if a giant had lifted it up and was shaking it to see if anything might fall out. In the morning they found that dozens of roof shingles had come crashing down on to the patio. Also one of the exterior walls had buckled, sending plaster raining down, while the wind had whipped ashes mixed with salt water through the shattered windows and across the furniture.

They picked their way across broken glass as they packed the few belongings they needed, and climbed into Amanda’s car. Fowler didn’t look back as they drove away, even though he was leaving the beach house for ever.

There were few signs of life as they drove the short distance north to Key Largo. Palm trees and royal poinciana, whose branches had once blazed red, now bowed under the accumulated weight of volcanic ash. The streets were deserted, making Fowler wonder where his neighbours could possibly have fled. It wasn’t like there was anywhere they could possibly go that was safer.

He thought about it a while longer, then decided that the impulse driving the two of them to fly to the Far East wasn’t really so very different.

They had barely started out on their journey before they came across a van lying on its side, so that it straddled the divider. An open-topped sports car was parked haphazardly nearby, one of its doors left wide open as if its owner might return at any moment. A recorded voice emerged faintly from the dashboard, warning that the vehicle was low on power.

Amanda guided their own car around and past the second obstruction. Only once they were past did they see the bodies of a young woman and a man lying side by side, darkening pools of blood stthe tarmac around what was left of their heads.

After that encounter, they drove the rest of the way in silence. The Keys had become suddenly menacing in a way they hadn’t been before, even with the constant tremors and volcanic ashes.

In lieu of conversation, Thomas brought a news feed up on the dashboard. There were now up to half a dozen volcanoes reactivated along the spine of South America, all the way from Chile to Nicaragua. Yellowstone, too, was showing ominous signs of seismic activity, while yet more growths had been sighted emerging from the waters off the coast of Ecuador. Thermal-imaging satellites had verified several others, blossoming all along the mid-Atlantic ridge, like a cancer metastasizing throughout a living body.

They dodged several more abandoned cars, and at one point two men stepped out into the middle of the road and tried to flag them down. Having chosen to keep the car on manual, Amanda hit the accelerator and drove straight towards them, until they were finally forced to jump out of the way. Shouted invectives trailed in their wake as they sped on along the highway connecting the chain of islands.

By the time they reached Key Largo, it was clear that plenty of other people had fled north, yet there were still some signs of life continuing the same as ever. Dozens of businesses were tightly shuttered, while others were cheerfully open for business.

Somehow, thought Fowler, this was the strangest thing of all. But, then, there were few people privileged to know just how little time was left to them all.

They drove along the south road, following the natural curve of the key, until they reached the first of several artificial islands floating on platforms just above the waves and supported by spar buoys, each such island linked to the land by a pontoon bridge that extended out into the ocean. The platforms themselves were built from some kind of extremely flexible but tough polymer composite that could survive the worst of the local hurricanes.

The car bumped and juddered as it rolled on to the pontoon bridge leading to Alex Trouillot’s flight and fishing business, which extended across an entire platform of its own. Most of the available space was in fact taken up by a landing pad, on which sat two sub-orbital VTOLs that Fowler knew from prior experience could get them to Hong Kong in less than four hours. Next to the platform were moored two antique twin prop float-planes, which Trouillot used for ferrying retired business executives out to sea for deep-water fishing.

They parked alongside a shop front with a grinning plastic swordfish suspended overhead. Fowler hesitated for a moment before getting out. He’d called ahead a few days earlier, explaining what he wanted to do, but, after everything he’d seen in the last few days, there was no reason to assume Alex hadn’t fled along with the rest of them. Just then he sighted Trouillot through a window, his feet propped up on a desk as he sat watching a TriView hanging from a nail. Fowler closed his eyes in silent relief and gratitude.

He noted a box of cartridges sitting on Trouillot’s desk as they entered, also a shotgun leaning against the wall and within easy reach. The TriView flickered between images of alien growths and volcaoes vomiting ash and smoke high into the stratosphere.

‘Mr Fowler,’ said Trouillot, rolling easily to his feet, with a glance at Amanda. ‘And this must be—’

‘Amanda,’ Fowler replied, as he shook hands with Trouillot. ‘She’ll be joining us.’

Amanda’s eyes slid towards the shotgun, and then back to Trouillot himself. ‘We saw some signs of trouble on the way here. Had any cause to use that thing yet?’

Trouillot shook his head. ‘Fortunately, no. But I’ve seen an awful lot of people heading north up the highway, and I’ve also heard word of a lot of looters coming the other way.’ His gaze flicked over to the TriView, and back. ‘I’ll have to admit, when you called, Mr Fowler, I got to wondering if you’d found some place safe from all this crap.’

‘None that I know of.’ Fowler shrugged apologetically. ‘I just have some unfinished business out in the Far East, that’s all. I’d . . . prefer to pay with paper, if I may.’

Fowler hoped he’d judged Trouillot right. It would be a mistake to automatically assume everyone operating a plane in Florida was involved in smuggling, but that didn’t mean a substantial number of them weren’t.

Trouillot gave them both an appraising look. ‘Like that, is it?’

Fowler waited, saying nothing.

Trouillot sighed and held a hand up. ‘Fine. It’s not like anyone’s much in the mood for fishing these days, anyway. Let’s see what kind of notes you’ve got.’

Fowler reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a single roll, noticing the way Trouillot’s eyes widened when he saw how thick it was. He peeled a number of notes off and handed them over.

Trouillot thumbed through the notes, then his eyes followed the remainder of the roll as Thomas stuffed it back in his pocket. ‘That’s a hell of a lot of money to be carrying around like that,’ he observed.

‘Enough for a down-payment on another sub-orb,’ replied Fowler. ‘But the rest of this is for you, if you can get us to where we want to go.’

Trouillot’s eyes flicked back to the screen, his expression becoming troubled. ‘Sounds good. Assuming I ever get the chance to spend it, that is.’

They took off less than an hour later, after Trouillot had run a routine systems check on one of the sub-orbs, and primed its engines. The craft shuddered violently, once its primary boosters kicked in at ten thousand metres, the sudden surge of power crushing the three of them back against their seats until Fowler could feel the metal frame of the acceleration couch pressing through its thick padding and into his spine. But just a few seconds later he felt his weight rapidly fall away, signalling that they were close to the apex of a long arc that would carry them halfway around the globe.

Amanda unbuckled herself from her acceleration couch and pushed herself over to the nearest window, while Trouillot, seated forward in the cockpit, continued talking to someone back on the ground. Semi-transparent weather maps and data feeds slid across the windscreen in front of him.

Fowler got up and joined her, and together they gazed down towards the surface of the Earth curving away below them, under the shadows of clouds drifting across the face of the ocean. They could see the water around the Keys, as bright aquamarine shading into vivid azure depths. Ominous clouds of ash drifted across the Gulf of Mexico.

‘I know I’ve said this already,’ said Amanda, ‘but I’m really glad we’re doing this.’

He rested one hand against her back, and reflected on how all the pain and worry and fear that had been keeping him awake for weeks on end had dissipated away the moment he’d decided to follow her to the Marianas. He didn’t even have to ask Amanda to know it was the same for her. Her eyes were no longer red-rimmed, and, when she smiled, she looked happier than he ever remembered seeing her.

I just wish we could enjoy it for more than just a few days
, he almost said, but didn’t, unwilling to spoil the moment. They stayed there for a while longer, watching the world turn beneath them. Florida eventually passed out of sight as their craft boosted itself closer to the edge of space.

‘Look,’ Amanda said suddenly, her hands pressed against the glass. ‘Can you see? There’s more of them.’

He looked over to the west of California, now receding into the east, and saw several wide swirls of white cloud out beyond the coastline, about where the deep ocean itself started. Seeing the growths like this awakened something primal within him, as if he were a caveman staring up at a thunderstorm with no comprehension or understanding of the energies about to strike him down.

Sophia, Newton Colony, 5 February 2
235

Saul found his way back to consciousness by small, faltering degrees, at first only dimly aware of a slight greying in the darkness that pressed up close against his face. The floor on which he lay was hard and unyielding and, as he tried to move, he quickly found his hands were securely tied behind his back. The thick cloth of the hood covering his head felt uncomfortably tight, and his chin itched abominably against the rough fabric.

He twisted, wriggling like an eel, until he was lying on his belly rather than his side.

He soon realized, to his considerable relief, that his legs were not similarly bound, so he could stand and even walk. With his tongue he traced the rim of a tiny hole cut into the hood, to prevent him from suffocating. It wasn’t nearly large enoug.

With a bit of work he shifted himself into a kneeling position. He noticed how the light brightened or dimmed depending on which way he turned his head, which suggested the presence of either a window or a light. He became increasingly aware of background noises, which resolved into the rumble of machinery, and the sound of voices coming from a considerable distance.

He shouted for attention, his dry throat feeling as sore as if he had swallowed a razor. He suddenly felt an urgent need to urinate. Somehow, not being able to see began pushing him close to the edge of outright panic.