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  Once more I was a little taken aback by her language – girls in Wisconsin are not, were not, quite as loose-lipped – although it didn’t seem to bother her companions. Probably they were used to it.

  ‘They seem to think I can do them some good. At least, their leader does. When you come to the traffic lights up ahead, go right Keep heading east.’

  ‘He wants you as a guinea pig, to do tests?’ It was the girl next to me who spoke.

  ‘No. He wants me as a refill.’

  ‘Blood transfusion?’ It was the man in the hat and I thought I detected an accent Polish? Not French. Maybe Czech. ‘Yeah. He’s a fool.’

  ‘But they tried, they proved it could not work. Blood types do not mix.’

  ‘He refuses to believe it.’

  The foreigner shook his head in pity, in disbelief, I don’t know which. The car lurched and I wedged myself in, one arm against the back of his seat, the other against my own.

  ‘Where you’ve come from,’ I said to the girl next to me, ‘were there many of you?’

  She wore plain utility clothes. A pale blue dress with puffed shoulders, brought in by a belt at the waist, no stockings, brown shoes that were sensible rather than stylish. On her it all looked good.

  ‘Not too many. AB negative is rare.’

  Yeah, I know it, I thought Too goddamn rare.

  The driver, still carefully guiding the car around obstacles, cut in. ‘They took us away to a secret location after the plague struck and they discovered our type wasn’t affected. It was down in Dorset, a sanatorium of some kind. They did tests, all kinds of things, trying to find an antidote for everyone else, but they failed. I suppose they were doing the same all over the country – all over the world.’

  I watched her profile. I guess I expected tears, but none appeared.

  ‘Most ABnegs took off,’ she went on, ‘when what was left of the medical staff started dying.’ For a few moments she concentrated on squeezing through the middle of two tramcars stopped adjacent to each other on the broad street, then she said, ‘Hey, what’s your name? As we seem to be saving your life it’s only right we be introduced.’

  ‘Hoke,’ I told her.

  ‘Hi, Hoke. Anything to go with that?’

  ‘Eugene Nathaniel.’

  ‘Christ, you Yanks. Okay, I’m Cissie and the beauty sitting beside you is Muriel. Muriel Drake.’

  Despite her anxiety, Muriel managed another smile.

  ‘And the chap in front of you is Willy,’ she said. ‘We picked him up when we found him hiking along a lane after we left the sanatorium. Only it’s not really Willy, is it, Willy?’

  He, too, managed a smile, but it was stiff, no warmth to it. He had a strong face, a prominent nose that I think must’ve been broken at some time, and eyes that looked beyond your own, eyes that kind of rummaged around inside a person’s head, maybe seeking out their own information.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘My name is Wilhelm Stern.’

  The w sounded like a v and there was almost an h between the s and the t.

  ‘German?’ My voice was soft.

  He nodded, and now his scrutiny of me had retreated, had drawn back swiftly, a flicker of alarm in his eyes.

  I lunged forward, grabbing his neck with both hands, thumbs digging in, trying to join with the fingertips on the other side. He pulled away and I went with him, leaning over the back of his seat, jamming his head against the dashboard. His own hands tried to grab my wrists, but the angle was awkward, and I felt the girl called Muriel tugging at my shoulders, trying to haul me off him.

  The driver, Cissie, struck out at me, battering my head with her fist ‘Leave him be, you bloody fool! It’s all over now, there’s no point!’ she yelled.

  It was no use though – in my hatred I was oblivious to either blows or entreaties.

  Stern fought back, but I had the advantage. He pushed at me, but could get no leverage, while Cissie continued to beat my head and arms, now with the heel of her fist.

  In her rage Cissie was paying more attention to me than the road ahead and the Ford hit something, something solid and immovable – maybe another tram – and we were spinning round, screeching a dry skid, engine whining while the tyres burned off rubber. Then we struck something else and the girls screamed and I shot forward, losing my grip on the German, hurtling through the broken windshield, taking whatever glass was left with me. I sprawled on my back on the Ford’s long, triangular hood, the rest of the world spinning round me, too soon to know if I was hurt and too dazed to care. Then I slithered off the hood and down the white-painted fender, a slow-motion drift that ended on the road’s hard surface. I was vaguely aware of doors opening and legs gathering around me. One of them kicked me, but it wasn’t vicious enough to do any damage; more likely it was meant to rouse me. I blinked, more than once, and saw Cissie glaring down at me.

  ‘You stupid bastard,’ she said, more in pity now than rage. ‘I told you, the war’s over. We can’t go on killing each other any more.’ Her eyes were softened by the beginning of tears.

  The other girl, Muriel, knelt close to me. ‘Are you all right?’ She touched a hand to my shoulder.

  Stern, the goddamn Kraut, was pointing my own gun at me.

  I struggled to get up, anger beginning to replace dizziness. I feebly attempted to reach for him, but Muriel shoved me back down against the crashed car. Her voice was quiet though.

  ‘It isn’t worth it, don’t you see? Your kind of hatred brought us to this.’

  My hand was shaking as I stabbed a finger towards the German. ‘No, it was his kind of madness.’ My words seemed to be squeezed from my chest.

  ‘My friend, if we do not get away from here right now, it will be their kind of madness that will kill us all.’ Stern waved the gun in the air, indicating the general area behind us.

  ‘Oh my God, they’re almost here.’ Cissie bent down and started pulling at my arm. ‘We ought to leave you here, you big dope.’

  Muriel tugged at the other arm and I was up, looking over their shoulders at the advancing vehicles. The Humber was having difficulty squeezing through the gap left between the two trams further down the road, while the Bedford truck was closer, but having problems with a lamppost on the kerb it had just mounted. The truck scraped by though, and began to gather speed again, the gunmen leaning on the cab roof pointing excitedly when they saw we were easy prey.

  Parts of me were beginning to hurt like hell, my body by now having accumulated a fair share of cuts, bruises and plain hard knocks; no bones broken though, nothing seriously torn – even where the bullet had ripped the shoulder of my leather jacket there was only grazed skin – so I knew I could function okay. I was still a little dazed, a bit numbed, but it wasn’t a problem. I quickly scanned the immediate area, searching for another vehicle to get us away from there, and all I saw was a jumble of snarled wreckage. There’d been a mighty accident here at some time, no doubt caused by panic when the population of London had tried to flee the Blood Death. We might have made our way through, found a car on the other side, hopefully with the key still in the ignition, but the Bedford was almost on us, its occupants whooping with glee. We were shit out of luck.

  And then I knew what we had to do. And I felt the blood drain from my face. And my hand was shaking a whole heap more than before when I raised my arm and pointed.

  3

  MURIEL WAS WATCHING ME as the others turned in the direction I was pointing. Our eyes locked and a faint line appeared in her otherwise smooth brow. There was a question in her gaze.

  It was Cissie who put the question though. ‘The Underground? You want us to go down there?’

  Stern was looking puzzled too.

  ‘They’ll never follow us,’ I said, already moving towards the entrance.

  ‘Of course they will,’ Cissie snapped back. ‘And then we’ll be trapped.’

  I paused, taking in all three of them. ‘Believe me, they won’t come after us.’

  A crash of met
al against metal as the Bedford barged past a black Austin, tearing off the little car’s white-painted fender in the process.

  ‘If you want to stay alive, get moving!’ I yelled, and I guess the urgency – and the fear – in my voice convinced them. A single gunshot from the approaching truck was the only other encouragement they needed. They ran, following me.

  Although limping slightly, I was in no serious pain, and was soon inside the cool, twilight ticket hall of Holborn Underground Station. I let the others pass me and took a peek out into the street. The army truck was only twenty yards or so away, now pulling to a screeching halt.

  I ducked back into the shadows and made my way towards the ticket office, stepping over dark shapes lying there in the half-light, ignoring them and hoping my new acquaintances were doing the same. The ticket office was a solitary booth erected in front of the opening to the escalators and as I reached for the door I called out: ‘Grab a mask each. You’re gonna need ‘em.’

  The two girls just gawked at me as I yanked open the door, but Stern had caught on; he’d already picked up a small cardboard box from the floor and was busy opening it. He pulled out a gas mask and handed it to Muriel. As I went into the booth he was looking around for more.

  A suit of bones sat slumped on a high stool inside the ticket booth, the skull with its leathery skin and empty eye sockets resting sideways on the narrow counter in front of it, thin, mummified hands stretched towards the small pay-window as if reaching for fare money. Long strands of greyish hair hung loose from the tan-coloured head and yellowed dentures lay on the shelf at the entrance of the open mouth, this itself guarded by the few remaining teeth, exposed and gumless, like crooked tombstones before a black vault. I was glad the light was poor, everything muted, hard to see.

  I’d expected the stench to be worse, but I guess the corruption had run its course long before, the smells of that decay slowly fading, escaping through the ticket window and vents, until only a staleness remained, unpleasant, cloying, but no big deal. I’d say this ticket clerk had been one of the lucky ones: the Blood Death had hit him fast, killing him where he sat while others fled around him, so that the booth had become his personal mausoleum, his solitary, unviolated sepulchre. His mouldering had been his own private affair.

  It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. I knew the clerk would have kept a flashlight or lamp close at hand for emergencies and, of course, the Blackout itself. It was a heavy chrome flashlight and I found it in a small corner cupboard just inside the door. I wasn’t surprised when I flicked it on and nothing happened. Okay, new batteries. I started pulling out drawers, opening more cupboards, and soon found a whole box of unwrapped Ever Readys. It took only seconds to eject the old ones from the flashlight and push in the new, and I held my breath as I switched on. A dim circle of light appeared at the other end of the ticket office and I let my breath go in a quick sigh of relief, the batteries were weak, but they’d do. I was out of the booth and shoving the flashlight into the German’s hand in an instant.

  In the street outside I could see the Bedford truck, Blackshirts jumping down into the road from its back.

  ‘Gimme the gun,’ I barked at Stern and for a second he pulled away, holding the Colt out of reach, the flashlight in his other hand.

  ‘It’s not loaded, for Christ’s sake!’ I grabbed it from him.

  By the time the first Blackshirt had reached the kerb just yards from the entrance I’d inserted a new clip and fired off a warning shot. The Blackshirt, and the others following him, ducked instinctively and changed direction, spreading out to take cover behind the walls beside the entrance. Because the Underground station was on a corner there were two accesses, and I hoped they wouldn’t have the sense to use the second, smaller one to our right. Two flanks I didn’t think I could handle.

  ‘Take the girls down!’ I shouted, indicating the escalators behind the barriers. ‘Get ‘em in the subway and wait for me there.’ I gave the Blackshirts another blast to keep them occupied.

  ‘Come with us,’ begged Cissie as Stern began pushing her and Muriel towards the escalators.

  ‘Soon as I can!’ I shouted back, then dodged behind the booth to fire off another couple of shots. The Blackshirts started to return fire, but they weren’t taking time to aim, afraid of exposing themselves for more than a split second. Funny thing when you’re living on borrowed time, as these goons outside were – life becomes even more precious. I knew they weren’t going to rush me, that I could hold ‘em there for a while; but sooner or later they’d figure a way to flush me out

  I took some well-spaced potshots, just enough to keep their heads down without wasting ammunition, giving the German and the girls time to get downstairs (hoping they’d have the nerve to carry on once they realized what they were descending into). After that I’d have my own problem: making a break for it with no one to cover me.

  Well, that problem kind of solved itself.

  It happened fast, and it happened without warning. One minute the Blackshirts were keeping out of sight, taking turns to spray bullets my way, filling the ticket hall with thunder, the next the black Humber Estate was roaring through the entrance, hurtling towards me, guns blazing from its side windows like in one of those gangster movies.

  I backed away fast, firing from the hip, turning when the Humber crashed into the ticket office and limping towards the barriers, leaping over the nearest rail, using my left hand for support, barely breaking stride on the other side. The Humber had lurched sideways when it hit the solid booth, swinging round and throwing its passengers against one another. Its bodywork hid me from more Blackshirts pouring through the entrance after it, giving me time to reach the top of the frozen stairways.

  I didn’t need to look to know what lay on those stairs – I’d used another subway as a means of escape almost three years ago and had never wanted to repeat the experience. I also knew the Blackshirts wouldn’t follow me down there – they didn’t have the balls for it. But the human debris that littered the escalator – all those dead, rotted corpses of men, women and children who’d tried to flee the Blood Death, thinking that the disease, the toxins, the chemicals, the goddamn visitation, whatever it was that Hitler had sent over in his revenge rockets, would never reach them in the tunnels beneath the city – I knew they’d be blocking the stairways, that they’d perished as they ran, and their skeletal limbs would now snag me as I went by, their heaped bodies would bar my way, forcing me to stumble through or to climb over them, giving the gunmen above time to find me in the darkness with a lucky bullet, or a hail of lucky bullets, and slow me down for good. So I forgot about taking the stairs.

  I leapt up onto the centre ramp between the escalators and slid down on my butt, kicking aside any stiffs slumped over the rail as I went, gliding down like a kid on a sleigh, slowing myself by grabbing the middle lamp columns, controlling the descent just enough to keep me from taking a tumble.

  Below I could see the dim light of the flashlight, the others waiting for me, the German having horse sense enough not to direct the beam at me. Glass from one of the dead lamps exploded as I swept by, showering me with fragments, and the light at the bottom of the stairs instantly vanished. I hoped Stern hadn’t been hit (I had my own plans for him), but had taken the two girls into the safety of one of the platform entrances. I lost control then, plummeting faster than I could cope with, my trunk trying to overtake my legs so that I began to turn. More bullets split the air, keeping me company, but I must have been just about invisible as I slid further into the blackness. The automatic was back inside my jacket holster, where I’d shoved it before the ride, and I clamped a wrist against it as I began to spin off the ramp. The next thing I knew I was falling, toppling off the slide and onto the stairs, soft (but brittle) things there breaking my fall, cushioning the rest of my uncontrolled descent.

  Probably I cried out – I don’t recall – as I tumbled down, rolling onto things that seemed to collapse at my touch, until I arrive
d at the bottom in an avalanche of corpses.

  I lay there, breathless and dizzy: and horrified. Something scratchy brushed against my cheek and I didn’t like to guess what. The thought came to me anyway and I panicked, thrashing out at the darkness, pushing the dried husk away and kicking at anything within kicking distance. The smell whacked me then, and I choked, gagged, fought back the swelling nausea. Until I realized it was all in my mind.

  Sure, the air down there in that huge mausoleum was foul, but it had more to do with staleness than rotting bodies. The corruption had run its course, you see, and the corpses had deteriorated as much as they ever would under these dry and stagnant conditions. When I’d first ventured into one of these places it had been in the early months after the holocaust and the dead were still decomposing, the stench unbearable; I should have understood by now that once the organs and internal body tissue have putrefied and finally disintegrated, there’s little else that can happen – the body can only become a mummified shell. No, the stench had been in my mind, what I’d expected. And the horror was not in the atmosphere, but in the presence of so many cadavers gathered together in this black void.

  ‘Hoke. Can you hear me? We are over here.’

  It sounded like the German’s voice, but it was muffled, distorted by the gas mask the speaker was wearing. The light, dim and comfortless, was coming from a passage not far away.

  ‘Are you hit?’

  Ignoring him, I picked myself up and, still crouched, peeked over the curved stair rail at the light from the top of the escalators. Bright flashes and ear-deafening explosions sent me scrabbling towards the light, the sounds amplified by the tiled walls. Vague heaps on the floor did their damnedest to trip me as I went and other bundles I knocked into, carcasses locked tight in sitting or kneeling positions, toppled over to lay there in those same attitudes of rapid death. Bullets ricocheted off walls or found softer targets around me and, with only a few feet to go, I took a desperate dive into the passageway where the German and the two girls were hiding. I lay there sprawled and gasping bad air and would have stayed that way a lot longer if Cissie hadn’t knelt beside me and pulled at my shoulder. She said something, but it was difficult to understand because of her mask. She tried again and I shook my head.