Impact (23 page)

Absurd wish? A fuelled automobile waiting for him to climb inside and turn the key to IGN? What the hell. About time they caught a break.

He kept walking.

Easy to picture old-time settlers crossing the dunes, trying to make is west. Near-dead horses hauling covered wagons merciless miles. Gaunt, hollow-eyed men and women, reins in their hands, praying for the landscape to change, anxious for any hint of vegetation.

They might be beneath his feet right now. Consumed by the landscape. Submerged cartwheels and planks. Horse skulls and tackle. Coffee pots and griddles. Boots, bonnets and bone.

His canteen hung from a lanyard slung from his shoulder. He uncapped and took a single swig, rolled the water round his mouth, sluiced cheek-to-cheek, finally swallowed. He licked the neck of the canteen in case a droplet of moisture hung from the screw thread, then recapped.

Eyes fixed on the starlight horizon. Part of him prayed for daybreak and rest. But it would be tough to sleep during the day. Heat would put him in a delirium. Physical exhaustion replaced by mental torment.

He began to fear the wilderness went on for ever. Boundless dunes, like he was lost within some kind of simulation. A game environment. A world built from code. Each time he crested a ridge a new section of virtual terrain, a wire-frame scaffold overlaid with plates of sand texture, would snap into being. The landscape would curl on itself like a Möbius strip. Walk long enough and he’d find himself back at the plane, back where he began.

He shook his head, tried to arrest his free-spinning imagination and return to the present.

How long had he been walking? A long while. Didn’t necessarily mean he’d covered much ground. Wading through soft sand. Laboriously hauling himself to the top of each dune. His calves and ankles burned.

He reconsidered his decision not to stop for rest. He wanted to cover as much ground as possible before sunrise. But if he drove himself to walk ten hours straight he might collapse.

Ought to conserve some energy for the following night. And the night after.

Better stop a moment and eat.

He came to a halt and stretched. Didn’t want to sit down. If he sat down his legs might stiffen up, make it impossible to walk.

He tore open a protein bar.

The eastern sky had begun to lighten. He must have walked most of the night. Might be able to cover a couple more miles before sunrise. Then he would have to pitch camp, arrange a survival blanket as a parasol.

He finished the energy bar and pocketed the wrapper.

He blew to warm his fingers.

He allowed himself another sip of water.

He reslung the canteen over his shoulder, tried to ignore the slosh of liquid that signalled the declining water level within the canteen.

A glance back. A trail of footprints receded to the horizon.

He touched his toes, swung his arms, then resumed his journey. He strode double-pace to cover as much ground as he could before sun-up, mouthed ‘… one, two, three, one, two, three …’ to set a rhythm.

He crested a high dune, and found a limousine.

Frost stumbled through the tear in the cabin wall. Her flight suit snagged and tore.

She hurriedly shunted equipment trunks against the aperture, sealing it shut.

Frantic scramble up the ladder to the flight deck. She disregarded jarring pain from her injured leg.

She threw herself into the pilot seat and pulled down the blast curtains, blocking out a blood-red sunset.

Hancock climbed the ladder and switched on cabin lights.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

Frost ejected her pistol mag and thumbed bullets into her palm. Four rounds. She reloaded, chambered, sat clutching the gun.

‘Seriously. What’s the deal?’

Frost sat, panting hard.

Hancock crouched beside her. He clicked his fingers for attention.

‘Hey. Lieutenant. Look at me.’

She looked at him. She slowly got her breathing under control, regained her composure, ashamed of her panic.

‘We need light,’ said Frost. ‘Lots of light. We should dig trenches and fill them with fuel. Circle the plane with fire.’

‘Slow down. What the hell is going on? Are we under attack?’

‘The bastards are out there, circling the plane.’

‘You saw them?’

‘Fuckers are getting bold. It’s like they got a purpose, a schedule.’

‘What did they look like?’

‘Pinback, Guthrie, Early.’

‘You saw their faces?’

‘They’ve come for us.’

‘Slow down,’ said Hancock. ‘I’ve seen thousands of infected bastards. So have you. They’re dumb. They got the intelligence of an earthworm. They don’t stalk their prey.’

‘Maybe there are different grades, like ants. Drones. Soldiers. Queens.’

‘It’s a fucking virus. A protein chain. A string of RNA. It doesn’t have a social structure. It can’t dictate tactics, strategies.’

‘It out-flanked humanity without much trouble.’

Hancock struggled to his feet.

‘Show me. I need to see for myself.’

The dying light of day.

Hancock staggered across the sand. He stumbled and fell. Frost reluctantly left the plane, gripped his arm and helped him upright.

She kept her pistol drawn, fearful of the gathering gloom.

‘Where were they?’

‘Over there. The ridgeline. Moving east, like they were on some kind of patrol.’

‘Sure it was Pinback and the guys?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where’s Noble? Did he see any of this?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘The fuck?’

‘He went for help.’

‘Dammit. We got a job. A mission.’

‘He’s headed for the target site. Figured he might be able to find something of use. A truck. A radio that actually works.’

They stood by the wing, weapons drawn, surveying shadows which seemed to lengthen and reach for them.

‘This is fucked up,’ murmured Hancock. ‘We’re through the looking glass. We’re into nightmares.’

‘Keep your eyes peeled.’

‘I’m not even going to blink.’

They circled the wing, crouched and shone their flashlights into deep darkness.

They inspected the engine, examined the intake turbine and exhausts.

‘You think they were fucking with the plane?’ asked Frost.

‘They got to be somewhere close by. Maybe they’ve built themselves a nest.’

They climbed onto the wing and peered into tears in the aluminium skin, inspected internal spars, control lines and fuel tanks looking for a telltale smear of blood.

‘Look,’ said Frost. She crouched and trained her flashlight on the wing surface. ‘See?’

Footprints.

They slid from the wing and dropped to the sand below.

They walked the length of the wrecked aircraft.

Hancock examined tears in the buckled hull.

Frost kept her flashlight trained on the roof of the plane in case they got jumped.

The broken tail section. Buckled support struts and fluttering insulation foil.

Frost shone her flashlight over surrounding dunes.

‘Hey. Look.’

Prints trailed across the sand. The tracks terminated in a small depression.

‘Looks like they went below ground,’ said Hancock.

The lower cabin.

They shunted equipment trunks against the wall fissure once more to create a barricade.

They leant against the ladder, wiped sweat and shared sips from a canteen.

‘Ought to check the bomb bay,’ said Frost. ‘Make sure the package is secure.’

Hancock switched on his flashlight and climbed into the crawlway. He inched along on his hands and knees until he reached the payload door.

He pulled back the hatch and peered inside. His flashlight played over the ribbed walls of the compartment, the massive rotary launcher, the missile.

‘Are we cool?’ called Frost.

Hancock didn’t reply. He climbed from the crawlspace and stood in the stifling cave-dark.

He flicked the light switch. Red night-mission lamps.

He cautiously crept the length of the compartment, murmuring.

He checked the launch apparatus, checked wall stanchions and roof girders.

‘You all right in there?’ called Frost.

‘Yeah,’ said Hancock. ‘Yeah, we’re clear.’

The flight deck.

They sat facing each other.

‘Let’s think it through,’ said Hancock. ‘Guthrie was infected for sure, right?’

‘Yeah. Advanced stages of infection. The rot, the spines. Must have been pretty far gone when he climbed aboard the plane. Looking back, he had his suit zipped to his neck and gloves on his hands during the briefing. Didn’t think much of it at the time.’

‘You shot him in the head.’

‘Yeah. Took a pretty big chunk of skull and brain. But maybe not enough to take him out the game. Plenty of frontal lobe damage, but it’s not like these bastards need much higher brain function. His cortex might be intact. Basic motor skills. Enough to keep him animated.’

‘So he could be walking around out there.’

‘There’s a chance.’

‘Pinback. You saw him die, right? Crash injuries.’

‘His spine was shattered. Guess he died of organ failure. The internal haemorrhaging and tissue cavitation associated with a massive impact. But his body might have been fresh enough to host the virus, if he were infected soon after death. Maybe Guthrie got to him, brought him back to some kind of life.’

‘And we got no idea what happened to Early. So we got at least three potential prowlers out there.’

‘Reckon so.’

‘Think they’re toying with us? Fucking with our heads?’

‘Not dealing with people any more. Dealing with a virus. Can’t attribute human motivations. No telling what it’s got in mind.’

Hancock lifted a blast screen and stared out into the night.

‘Why don’t they attack?’ he murmured. ‘Perfect opportunity to take us out.’

‘Maybe they went after Noble. He’s out there alone. Easy prey.’

Noble skidded down the lee side of a dune in an avalanche of dust.

The white Humvee limo.

Under his breath:

‘What the fuck?’

He circled the vehicle. It was smashed up. A couple of windows were broken. Need a tow truck to get it moving.

He ran a finger along a rubber window seal. Thick accumulation of dust. The limo had been sitting in the desert a while.

The driver’s door was open. Noble peered inside. A dead guy slumped on the passenger seat.

Heart stopping thrill as he glimpsed Diet Coke in the door pocket. Anger when he lifted the can and found it drained dry. He scrunched the can and threw it aside.

He climbed inside the vehicle.

He checked the steering column. No ignition key.

He checked out the dead guy. Mismatched fatigues. Desert boots, G-Shock, pocket vest, ballistic wraparounds. One of Trenchman’s rag-tag contingent.

Noble pulled on gloves and searched the body. Pat down: SOG multitool in a belt pouch, couple of cigars in a breast pocket, pistol but no ammo.

Dog tags:

OSBORNE.

O NEG.

The guy had been shot in the back where he sat. A bullet had ripped a big exit wound in his belly and hit the dash, punching a hole in the facia of the Bose five-point surround.

Noble reached across and released the passenger door. He kicked the corpse out the car into the dust.

Sunlight through the sunroof, the side windows. Daybreak. The temperature was already beginning to climb. Better use this unexpected refuge, this gift of shade, before moving on at nightfall.

He climbed over the driver partition into the rear.

Dead plasmas. Bent stripper pole. Empty mini-bar.

He swept a coach seat free of dust and empty vodka miniatures. He sat down, unlaced his boots and massaged sore feet.

He took
The Little Prince
from his backpack and tenderly turned pages.

To Malcolm, Have a very happy birthday, All my love, Dad.

He lay down and positioned his backpack for a pillow.

Motes of dust swirled and swarmed in the heavy air of the passenger compartment.

He hugged the book to his chest and closed his eyes. If he slowed his breathing, imposed stillness on a restless body, perhaps he would sleep until darkness fell.