9781629270050-Text-for-ePub-rev (9 page)

Chapter Eight

O
ut of almost two hundred pupils, only eight turned up for school in Penmawr on Wednesday
morning. Out of more than twenty members of staff, only four showed up: Tom, one other
teacher, one teaching assistant and the headmaster.

Tom trod the echoing corridor towards his classroom, feeling a sense of disassociation.
The corridors were normally alive at this hour with running feet and laughter and
chit-chat and the bellows of teachers ordering pupils to walk, not run, but this morning
he walked down it alone.

He turned into his classroom, expecting to find it empty. Sitting at one of the tables,
head cast down at his hands that fidgeted on the table, was a boy.

Tom dumped his briefcase and crossed to the boy in three long strides. He crouched
down at his side.

“James?”

The boy turned his head to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and weepy; a thin
line of snot ran from his nose and collected in a puddle on his top lip. Judging from
the damp stain on the boy’s sleeve, his jumper made a useful handkerchief.

“James, how did you get to school? Did your mum bring you?”

The boy shook his head. He coughed and winced as though it hurt.

“Did you walk? On your own?”

The boy nodded. The action made the snot run over his lip and into his mouth. He wiped
at it with his sleeve, smearing it across his cheek.

Tom thought for a moment. He knew that this lad had no brothers and sisters, and no
father; at least not one that the boy knew.

“Where’s your mum, James? Has she gone to work?”

“No, sir.” It was barely audible, not even a whisper. “She’s . . . not very well.”

A sob hitched in the boy’s thin chest and his eyes filled up.

Tom reached out and gathered the boy to him, hugging him close to his overcoat. This
was against all protocol that forbade teachers from having any physical contact with
their pupils, but right at that moment Tom couldn’t give a stuff for protocol.

He waited until the boy’s shaking had subsided somewhat, then stood and grabbed him
by the hand.

“Come on, James. We need to get you home. I don’t think there’s going to be any school
today. Where’s your coat—in the cloakroom?”

The boy nodded. He coughed again and swiped at his nose with his free arm.

Tom walked with him back down the corridor, retrieving the boy’s coat on the way.
They stopped at the headmaster’s office.

The door was open and a deep, bellowing coughing came from within. There was not much
point in knocking. Tom walked in, still clutching the boy’s hand.

Mr Ross sat behind his desk, almost doubled over with the coughing fit. He half straightened
and Tom involuntarily gasped. The man’s face, usually quite florid, was now the colour
of a ripe plum. Tears streamed from puffy eyes and the cheeks had sunk in on themselves
like subsiding ground.

The headmaster coughed again into a handkerchief that looked damp and sticky. He took
short, sharp breaths, struggling to get the coughing under control.

“Mr Ross? Is there anything I can get you?” said Tom, more to say something than from
any expectation that he could actually help the man.

Mr Ross shook his head. “No,” he managed. “When it catches me, I have to go with it.
Ride it out. It’s easing now.” He sat up straighter and looked at Tom’s charge.

“Hello, young James,” he said. “We’ll soon sort you out. Be a good lad and wait for
me in the corridor while I talk to Mr Evans.”

James nodded and let go of Tom’s hand. He turned and trudged out of the office.

“I know that one’s mother,” said Mr Ross. “She went to school with my eldest granddaughter.
I’ll take him home. Maybe sit with them for a while.”

“You’re closing the school?”

“No bloody point staying open. You’re the only person who’s turned up today who’s
fit and healthy.” Despite his swimming eyes, Mr Ross was still capable of fixing Tom
with a piercing glare. “Haven’t been able to get hold of anyone, mind.” He motioned
to the phone on his desk. “Education department, governors, even tried the Welsh Government
Education department in Cardiff. No bugger’s answering.”

“This thing seems to be widespread. Worldwide. Everyone’s coming down with it.”

“Except you, eh?”

“Apparently so . . . I feel fine at the moment.”

“Well, I hope it remains that way, Tom. Trust me, you don’t want to feel this way.
Tell me, are you a religious man?”

“Um, not really.”

“No? Me neither. I was brought up with the chapel, but stopped going twenty years
ago when my Elsie died of cancer. I could no longer believe in a god that would allow
such a terrible thing to happen.”

Tom didn’t know what to say so said nothing.

“I wonder,” continued the headmaster, “whether it’s too late to find that path again.”

“I don’t think it’s ever too late, is it, sir? Forgiveness and all that.”

“Hmm. I suspect I shall find out sooner rather than later. Do me a favour, will you,
Tom? Help an old man to his feet.”

Tom stepped around the desk and gripped Mr Ross under his arm. The man felt hot. Feverish.
With a grunt, he stood. Tom helped him around the desk where the headmaster shrugged
into a heavy overcoat that was hanging from a coatstand behind the door.

“Right, where’s that young James? Let’s get you home, young man.” Before stepping
out of the door, Mr Ross stopped and looked back at Tom. “You and Lisa would have
made a lovely couple, you know. Pity.”

“You knew?”

Mr Ross smiled. “Good luck, Tom. Whatever fate has in store for you, meet it head
on.”

“Er, okay. Good luck to you, too, sir.”

“Oh, I think luck will play no part in my future, Tom.”

Tom followed him and James out of the building and watched as they both got into the
headmaster’s car. He waved as they disappeared down the school drive. Neither Mr Ross
or the boy waved back.

* * * * *

The desert at night in December is a cold place, but the vehicle’s air conditioning
was efficient and kept the interior temperature to a steady twenty-one degrees Celsius.
Diane drove through the night, enjoying the emptiness of the highway, barely going
above fifty miles per hour.

She pulled in at every rest stop. If fuel was available, she’d fill up, smearing the
pump handle with dust from her canister. If not, she’d pretend to use the WC, leaving
smears on door handles and faucets. If, as was more often the case, the joint was
locked up in darkness, she’d stride over to the doorway and grip it briefly as though
to confirm the place was closed before walking smartly back to the car and driving
away.

At one point, her headlights picked out a rough dirt track leading across the desert
towards some low hills. Had she chosen to turn off the highway and follow the track,
it would have eventually led her to a low building enclosed behind a well-maintained
chainlink fence topped with barbed wire. A camera mounted above the locked gate would
have swivelled towards her and a disembodied voice would have enquired about the nature
of her business. If she had no business there, the voice would have politely suggested
that she turn around and return to the highway.

The building and the land upon which it stood were in private ownership. The government
was aware that it existed and every five years or so carried out an inspection, but
had never turned up anything that gave cause for concern. The locked cabinet inside
the main door contained a small selection of firearms that were all licensed and properly
stored. The variety of chemicals that were used for research and to maintain the sterile
environment were, too, fully logged and stored according to regulation.

The land was registered to a corporation that gave its address as a swanky building
in Manhattan that housed a firm of attorneys that prided itself on acting for the
extremely rich and famous, and providing extreme discretion if so required. Such was
required, very much so, in this case.

As far as the government was aware—and it had tried to dig further without success—the
corporation was the public face of a group of reclusive millionaires who wished to
remain anonymous, but who desired to use some of their wealth for altruistic purposes.
One such purpose was to conduct research into the gene that caused cancer and that
is what the building in the Mojave Desert was used for.

Every five years, the government inspectors were treated to a guided tour of one of
the most advanced laboratories in the world, staffed by a team of half a dozen, presumably
highly paid, research scientists. The gleaming laboratory equipment was state of the
art, so the inspectors thought. In fact, a few items of equipment, disguised as a
spectrometer or hidden within a centrifuge or masquerading as an electromagnetic microscope,
went way beyond state of the art, employing technology unknown to man.

It was from this building that, eighteen months or so ago, a shipment of silvery metallic
containers, somewhat resembling thermos flasks, had left, bound for destinations throughout
the world.

Now the scientists within continued to work, ostensibly still trying to isolate and
manipulate that elusive gene. An unannounced inspection would not uncover anything
suspicious. Yet the work was a sham. The scientists in that laboratory knew exactly
how to isolate and manipulate the gene. They could have eradicated cancer in a heartbeat.

What they were actually doing was awaiting the call that would see them drop everything
and head east, following the same route as Diane Heidler. Two SUVs stood ready in
the dusty yard, fuelled and packed with food and water for the trip east.

* * * * *

As the virus spread and the worldwide death toll rose into thousands, political tensions
increased.

For a twelve-hour period on the Wednesday two weeks before Christmas, mankind teetered
on the edge of adding nuclear war to its list of woes.

North Korea postured and threatened a full-scale nuclear attack on the United States,
claiming that the West had waged biological warfare upon it. The West responded cautiously,
pointing out that it had in fact been the first to suffer casualties and the virus
appeared to be a world problem, divorced from political ideology, killing democrat,
republican, communist, anarchist and liberal indiscriminately.

China entered the fray, followed by Russia and Iran. Soon every major world power
had something to say about the Millennium Bug, fingers were pointed and warheads armed.

The world held its breath.

Then, as the virus raged unabated, the absurdity of the claims and counterclaims seemed
to strike home. Either that or the upper echelons of state themselves were feeling
too ill to be bothered getting into a fight. Warheads were disarmed and troops stood
down. Besides, the troops were needed to deal with the increasing domestic unrest
to which not even North Korea was immune.

Floods of panic-buying had cleared most shops of fresh produce; tinned goods were
next to fly from the shelves. Restocking ground to a halt as shop workers, warehousemen
and delivery drivers fell victim to the Millennium Bug.

The usual militant factions saw their opportunity and stirred up unrest, leading to
protests and rioting and looting. Many governments reacted strongly, imposing martial
law, but the riots were short-lived in any event. It is difficult to be enthusiastic
about rioting when the light is too bright, limbs feel like they’ve been scooped out
and filled with concrete, and bed seems a much more attractive proposition than throwing
a brick through a shop window.

Martial law was nevertheless retained and in fact extended by most administrations
in a vain attempt to curb the further spread of the virus. Quarantine areas were set
up, buffer zones established, firebreaks attempted. People attempting to flee quarantined
areas were peremptorily executed.

International flights were cancelled by one country after another until the skies
had fallen silent. All except for the occasional drone of military aircraft.

Most experts agreed that these attempts were futile, that the damage had already been
done. One prominent medical expert, speaking on BBC’s Panorama, described the measures
as, “not so much slamming the stable door after the horse has bolted. More like after
the horse has been captured, shot and turned into dog food and glue.”

* * * * *

In the New York apartment that overlooked Central Park, Milandra let out a deep sigh
and pressed the off switch on the TV remote.

“Well, that was a close call. A lot closer than I’d have liked.”

She and her Deputies had spent all day in front of the television, watching the world
draw close to nuclear annihilation and then pull back from the brink.

Wallace grunted. “Our people wouldn’t have let it happen.”

Milandra nodded. “It is as well we took the precaution. It was nevertheless a close-run
thing.” She shuddered.

Simone spoke in a voice of one just waking up. “Um, what precaution did we take?”

Milandra exchanged a glance with Grant and allowed him to explain.

“Simone, don’t you recall? We have people in top advisory positions in most volatile
governments throughout the world. Their job wasn’t to disseminate the virus, but to
exert influence at the very top to try to prevent any overreactions. It seems that
they were successful. Just.”

The girl tittered. “Oh, yeah. They were to stop everything going
Boom
!”

Grant raised his eyebrows. “Yep. That’s about the size of it. They actually had by
far the most dangerous jobs to do. And the most crucial . . . We could only hope that
in the extremity of facing the decision of whether or not to press the button, the
minds of world leaders would be open to influence and would fail to detect that their
wills were being manipulated. It appears that—”

A loud, insistent banging came from the front door.

Wallace and Lavinia were at the door in moments, standing to either side, guns at
the ready. Milandra and Simone remained seated, but both turned towards the door to
watch. Grant rose and strode to the door. He glanced at Wallace and Lavinia who both
nodded and slipped off the guns’ safety catches.