James Herbert - 48

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James Herbert: '48
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For Kitty, who knew more than one Tyne Street.
Love and appreciation from us all...
1
WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?
My eyes snapped open and my head lifted an inch or so from the floor; a mess of thoughts stalled any
sense.
I pushed the quilt I'd borrowed off my chest and an empty beer bottle rolled across the dusty carpet
when my booted foot (I'd learned to sleep with my boots on) knocked it over. The glass made a dull
clunk as it struck a tiny centre table. I raised my head another inch, my body tense, hearing now acute; I
looked right, I looked left, I even looked up at the fancy ceiling. Early-morning sunlight flooded through
the open half of the balcony doors, butting in on a gloom caused by boarded windows. A slight breeze
tainted with the musk of decay drifted through with the light. I listened.
Cagney, who'd found a dark corner to nest in - he liked the shadows; survival came with low profile -
gave a mean growl, a soft rumbling that was warning rather than alarm. I brought up a hand to silence him
and he obeyed; I could just make out the shine of his eyes as he watched me.
The quilt slid away when I leaned on an elbow and a sharp knife punctured the general ache inside my
head, punishing me for the insobriety of the night before. There were plenty more brown bottles littering
the floor around me, empty soulmates to the one I'd kicked over and counter-testimony to my long
dislike of English beer. Skin scraped against jaw bristle as I wiped the back of my hand across dry lips.
Full consciousness arrived in a rush and then I was up, moving swiftly towards the light, crouched and
quiet, ears and eyes alert for the slightest disturbance. I skirted the little round table and paused beside
the open door to the balcony, keeping out of sight behind glass darkened by rotting blackout boards.
Despite the early hour a dry summer heat maundered through the opening, its soft breeze carrying dust
motes from the damaged city outside along with its sourness. I snatched a quick look into the sunlight,
ducking back again straight away. Then I took another, extended look.
The last barrage balloons hovered over the battered landscape like bloated sentinels. Much closer,
directly opposite, the grey and grimed trio on the memorial plinth bowed their heads as if in shame, the
words Truth, Charity and Justice now irrelevant. Save for metal litter, the broad, tree-lined avenue behind
them was deserted.
What then? I'd chosen this billet because the balcony room offered a good view of anyone approaching
the main entrance; it also gave me plenty of places to play hide 'n' seek in. The building was a warren of
rooms, halls and corridors, a honeycomb of hideaways. It suited me fine.
But someone had discovered my sanctuary; the mutt wouldn't have growled for no reason. Maybe it
was rats, skulking through the passageways, hardly afraid of humans any more. Or another dog, a cat
maybe. But I didn't think so. Instinct told me it was something else. Instinct and Cagney I'd learned to
rely on.
I didn't waste any more time.
The motorcycle was where I'd left it last night, carpet rucked up around its wheels. That was another
thing I could rely on: a single-cylinder Matchless G3L, this one painted buff for desert warfare, only never
shipped out. A survivor. Like me and the dog.
I moved fast, scooping up my fly-jacket from the floor and shrugging it on as I went. The added weight
in the lining provided a small comfort. Out the corner of my eye I saw that Cagney was on his feet, ready
for action, but waiting for me. His stubby mongrel tail was erect, expectant. Within seconds I'd pushed
the bike off its stand, mounted it and was switching on. I kicked down on the starter, hard but smooth,
sensing the machine the way you can if you 'know' them, if you love every working part, and the engine
roared into life first go (I'd given this baby a lot of care and attention).
The wheels burned carpet as I took off, heading for the closed set of doors at the end of the room,
doors that were just beginning to open.
I hit them hard and someone on the other side squawked blue hell as the heavy wood struck him. Paws
grabbed at me as I shot through, but the Matchless was already too fast and all they found was empty
air. Now I could smell 'em and believe me, it wasn't pleasant. One fool standing further back in the room
jumped in front of me waving his arms like some demented traffic cop, so I swerved the bike and raised
a boot. Groin or hip, I'm not sure which I made contact with, but he doubled up and swung round like a
top, his whooshy grunt affording me some pleasure. Short-lived though, because the angle of the bike
caused it to slide along the room's big rug, ruffling it up in thick waves. A few years' dust powdered the
air as I fought to control the skid.
I lost it, though. The machine slicked away from me and I let it go, afraid of catching a leg underneath if
we both went down together. I rolled with the fall, tucking in a shoulder and staying loose the way I'd
been trained. I was up, crouched and ready before the bike had slithered into a fancy chest of drawers
halfway down the chamber, ruining painted panels and gold carvings.
One of the intruders, his face ugly with dirt and aggression, came lurching towards me while his two pals
behind the crashed doors tended their hurts. Cagney trotted into view and stood in the doorway,
interested in how things were working out.
The Blackshirt, almost on me now, clutched an M1 carbine across his chest. Now either he was too
crocked to aim the rifle, or he was under orders not to shoot me. I figured the second was most likely,
because I knew by this time that his chief, Hubbe, would prefer me alive - my blood would be better
warm and runny. You see, he had a crazy use for me. Real crazy. But then I guess only the crazies were
left. The crazies and me. And who said I was sane?
Well fuck you, Hubble, you and your goons. Satan's hell-house would be cooler'n a penguin's ass before
you took me alive.
Hubbe's stormtrooper caught the glint in my eyes and changed his mind about following orders. He
began to swing the weapon towards me.
His action was sluggish though, as if he had to think about the move rather than just react, and it
occurred to me he wasn't only dazed by the slam he'd taken, but by the effects of the Slow Death itself:
there was a darkness around his eyes and smudges beneath his skin, bruisings that were never going to
fade; and the ends of his fingers were blackish, as if the blood had jellied at his body's extremities. That
didn't make him any less dangerous though, just a little slower.
My own weapon, a Colt .45 automatic, standard US issue, was in the holster I'd stitched into the lining
of my leather jacket. Buck Jones might've made the draw, but I was no gunslinger. So I made the only
move open to me.
I took a dive, rolling forward under the rifle barrel, head tucked in, legs curled up. As soon as my back
hit the deck I kicked out with both feet, catching the goon in the lower belly and doubling him up. He
almost fell on top of me, but I used my legs again to push him to one side. He gave a kind of honk and
collapsed. I was on him before he had the chance to get his breath back, pushing the rifle towards him
instead of pulling it away as he'd expected. The breech cracked against his jaw and his grip relaxed. In
one swift action I wrenched the carbine from him and smacked the stock against the side of his face. His
head snapped to the right and his body went limp.
I tossed the weapon aside and sprinted towards the Matchless. Cagney decided things were going
pretty well and scampered from the doorway to join me, yapping his approval as he skirted the injured
Blackshirts. I ignored his licks as I hauled the motorbike away from the wrecked cabinet, angry that my
cover was blown, my regal refuge now useless. There'd be more of them around, searching for me,
combing every room, every corridor, every damn nook and cranny, no matter how long it took.
I pulled the bike upright and swung a leg over. Voices came through from the balcony room I'd been
using as a bivouac and I guessed Hubble's screwball army had been applying a pincer movement,
working through the place from both sides. How the hell did they know I was here? I had the whole
goddamn city - and there was plenty left still standing - to hole up in, yet he'd zeroed in on me. Shit luck.
Someone must've followed me or caught me sneaking in. With anger as much as fear I hit the starter
hard, but this time the engine didn't kick in first time. Those voices were getting louder and the men I'd
already tangled with, 'cept the one I'd poleaxed with the rifle butt, were rising to their feet and regarding
me with hate in their hearts and caution in their eyes. I tried again, adding a cuss for luck, and the engine
caught, the machine roared into life. Music to my ears.
Running footsteps next door, they'd heard the music too. Cagney took off without me, heading into the
blue as if he were the prey. Well maybe he had a point - they'd shoot him just for the pleasure.
The motorcycle's front wheel almost reared up as I took off. I had to lean low over the fuel tank and use
my weight to hold the bike to the floor as I fled the bad guys. There was a crack of gunfire from behind
and the cobwebbed face of a tall pedestal clock ahead of me imploded. Sculptured figures, all dusty gilt,
clung for dear life as the old timepiece reverberated with tiny jangly explosions. The marksman was either
a shit shot or he wanted to unnerve me; maybe he was only warning others I was on my way.
I hurtled through the open doors at the end of the room and had to brake hard to avoid crashing through
windows dead ahead; this was where the east face met the north wing. My left foot dragged floor as I
brought the bike round in a skid that sent a small table and the ornate and no doubt priceless (but
nowadays worthless) vase on its top flying. The vase shattered on the floor, but no one was going to
complain.
Because of the blackout precautions, everywhere inside this place was gloomy, but enough light shone
through chinks and cracks for me to find my way. I'd just entered the complex of private apartments and
bedrooms so knew there was a stairway close by. Unfortunately it was too steep and narrow for the bike
and I had no mind to try it on foot: speed was my ally, had been for some time now, y'see, and I had to
stick to the escape route I'd already worked out. Besides, I'd be an easy target for anyone waiting to
ambush me in the stairwell.
Another bullet whistled through the doors and thudded into the wall next to the windows; but I had the
bike under control again and shot into the long corridor that would take me through the north wing.
Fortunately the place had been cleared of corpses and evacuated as soon as the main tenants - God rest
their poor souls - had taken flight, so I didn't have to worry about rotting carcasses getting in my way. I
opened up, roasting rug, spewing up dust, the engine's roar shaking the walls, filling the air. It didn't take
long to reach the west wing and that's where the real fun started.
I'd been making for the main staircase, which I knew the Matchless could take easy enough, reducing
speed along the way only to negotiate the trickier twists and turns, and I'd arrived at a long picture gallery
where I could change up a gear, make better headway. I'd zipped past Rembrandts, Vermeers,
Canalettos (I'd spent some time in this museum with its glazed arched ceiling and low viewing couches set
around the walls, enjoying the brilliance before me but bitter, I guess, that these works of art now
counted for zilch), when a figure leapt out from one of the several openings, halfway down on my left.
He only clipped my shoulder as I went by, but that was enough. I lost balance and slewed off at an
angle, careering into one of the gallery's small tables, knocking it aside before running into a couch. I
recovered enough to keep going, my right leg trapped between bike frame and seat, yelling as my pants
ripped and my skin burned. I pulled away, picking up speed again, the gallery no more than a dirt track
without soil to me.
But again I had to brake as three men appeared in the little lobby at the end of the hall, using the
handbrake a split second ahead of the footbrake pedal and leaning hard so that the bike screeched to a
clean sideways halt.
I sat there one or two moments, fists tight around the handgrips, holding the clutch lever, sweat soaking
my forehead, running down my back. Vibrations from the machine's simmering engine ran through my
body. The three Blackshirts watched me from the lobby, one of 'em grinning, knowing they had me
trapped. They all carried firearms, but no one bothered to take aim. Their hair was short, cut
military-style, and their shirts - black, naturally, although the effect spoilt by dust and creases - were
tucked into loose black pants, the grimy uniform of arrogance, the cloth of annihilation. These sick
degenerates still hadn't learned the lesson.
A shifting in the shadows behind them, and then another face, a woman's face, appeared at their
shoulders. She grinned too when she sized up the situation.
I glanced to the left and saw the sap who'd tried to ambush me pulling himself up, disappointment
souring his mug. Through the same entrance came another Blackshirt, this one thumping what looked like
a pickaxe handle into the open palm of his hand, the dullthwack it made amplified by the long room's
acoustics. The gleam in his eye and the twisted leer he beamed my way were anything but pleasant. Just
to confirm the odds really were against me the sound of running footsteps came from the far end of the
picture gallery. The vermin who'd started the chase arrived at the opening down there and they also took
time out to consider the state of play.
I turned back to the four who were creeping out of the lobby. They stopped, as if my look had caught
them put, and now all of them grinned as I sat there revving up the engine. They had me, they were
thinking.
And then I grinned too and theirs faded away.
I took off, spinning the bike, swerving close to the wall, aiming straight at the luckless ambusher who'd
only just picked himself up. His eyes widened, first in surprise, then in panic, as I hurtled towards him, the
bike's roar deafening as it bounced off walls and curved ceiling. He managed to jump clear, throwing
himself into the arms of his slack-jawed buddy, the axe handle trapped between their bodies. I was long
gone before they'd had time to disentangle, veering left and disappearing through the opposite doorway
to the one they'd used (luckily for me the gallery had more than its share of entrances and exits).
I was in a room whose main wall was one huge bowed window that, if it hadn't been for the blackout
shades, would have overlooked acres of overgrown lawns and weed-filled gardens. Tall black pillars on
either side of individual windows reached up to a vaulted and domed ceiling and over white marble
fireplaces were big arched mirrors in plaster frames. (I'd taken all this in, you'll understand, on another
day when my time was less occupied.) I kept the bike turning in a rough elongated semi-circle from my
starting point, tyres screeching off a parquet flooring of rich woods, speeding up into the adjoining room,
sure of the layout even in the dusky light. I straightened up, whipping past Corinthian columns, long velvet
drapes, the breeze I was creating causing low-hanging crystal chandeliers smothered in cobwebs to
sway; past blue and gold chairs, large paintings of ancient monarchs mounted on blue flock walls; past a
marble and gilt bronze clock with three dials, a dark blue porcelain vase, a set of elaborate side tables,
again all marble and gilt bronze; diverting round a circular single-pedestal table, before zooming through
the open mirror doors into the next state room. (I knew exactly where I was headed because I'd had
plenty of time to check out the whole set-up during my stay and, being naturally cautious, I had more than
one escape route planned should the need arise, with certain doors deliberately left open to give me a
clear run.)
What I needed was for those lunkheads to follow me rather than try to cut me off, because I was
continuing the semicircle, the blue room itself parallel to the picture gallery they'd chased me from. I'd
snuck a quick look to my left just before going through the doors into the grand dining room and
observed that the small lobby which served both the gallery and the blue room was empty. Good. It
meant they'd taken the bait - the Blackshirts were chasing instead of waiting.
Vases of withered flowers, an oval tureen, and tarnished silver ewers with cobweb sails trailing to the
huge lacklustre tabletop said it all: Grandeur given over to decay. The dusty red walls and carpet gave me
the sickening feeling of passing through a festering, open wound, and the cold eyes of long-gone royals
framed by dull gold followed me all the way. These crazy notions were brought on, I guess, by adrenaline
overload; but what the hell, they kept my senses kicking.
I began to brake again for the sharp turn I was gonna have to make, and almost stopped completely
inside the smaller antechamber filled with large tapestries I found myself in. Shoving one of those
over-elaborate kneehole desks out the way with my front wheel, I went on through to a short passage
room, then foot-wheeled a left into another gallery. A wide descending stairway was at the far end and
that was my goal. I gritted my teeth and tightened my grip as I raced past the usual collection of
masterpieces, aware I was travelling too fast to take the stairs but disinclined to slow down - I knew my
pursuers would second-guess me as soon as they heard the bike coming back their way. I braked hard
at the last moment.
It was a bumpy ride, despite the fact that the Matchless G3L was one of the first British motorcycles to
be built with hydraulically damped telescopic forks and the stairway itself was fitted with a plush red
carpet all the way down; my arms were rigid fighting the acute angle, my butt barely touching the seat,
every bone in my body jolted as I kept the rear wheel almost locked. Head juddering, bones rattling, I
vented a staccato kind of wail (I'd never taken the stairs at that speed before), and then the bike was
level for a piece and my wail pitched to a whoop of relief or triumph, I'm not sure which.
On either side, two arms of the grand staircase swept up to a balcony overlooking the next set of steps I
was about to take, the doorway at the top leading to the long picture gallery where they thought they'd
had me trapped; the Blackshirts had cut back and were pouring through that doorway. The lead goon
just had time to raise his gun over the bronze balustrade and fire a wild shot before I opened throttle and
took off, sailing over the second set of steps without touching one. My extended whoop came
dangerously close to a scream as a bullet clanged off the bike's pannier rack.
The shock of landing nearly threw me off, but I rode the bounce, tyres scorching carpet as I braked and
fought to keep the machine in a straight line. We screeched (yeah, bike and I) to a stop inches from the
opposite set of rising steps in the great entrance chamber.
I grabbed a breath, then dug my heels into the deep pile, hauling the Matchless back to give me room to
swing round. Shouts and footsteps behind told me the mob was descending the curved staircase.
Someone released a burst of fire that could only have come from a Sten gun and as I turned I saw holes
puncturing paintings around the walls. Maybe the shooter was trying to scare me into surrender, or
maybe he was just pissed off, as the British say.
I'd cleared enough space when I heard a yap from close by. I did a quick scan for Cagney, but he was
nowhere in sight. Well the mutt could take care of himself - hadn't he let me grab all the attention while
he'd sneaked down another way? I opened up again, and the Matchless spun a smart turn, scuffing the
bottom step of the four leading to a marble hall beyond the entrance chamber. That was where Cagney
finally showed, loping along the royal gathering place, avoiding the marble on either side of the red carpet
which presumably was too cool or too smooth for his dainty pads. He lingered to wag his stumpy tail at
me and I yelled at him to get the hell out. He took the hint and streaked past me towards the entrance
doors.
My circle was taking me close to the staircase I'd just sailed over and the sight I caught was not an
encouraging one: three of my pursuers were leaning over the stair rail aiming their weapons at me while
still more scurried down behind them. The angle was too awkward for the marksmen and anyway, I
didn't wait for them to get a bead on me. Their shots chewed carpet and chipped marble columns, but I
was out of there, hunched over the handlebars, already passing through the entrance doors to the classy
porch outside.
With my right foot scraping concrete, I skidded around the double portico's stone columns and was
soon out in the open; left again and a quadrangle surrounded by the four blocks of the ancient building
itself spread out before me.
Across the broad expanse of concrete and directly opposite the portico was a narrow archway, with
even narrower pedestrian passageways on either side, leading through to the forecourt and open gates. In
better times the ceremonial coach had used that archway, but now it was going to accommodate just one
man and his dog. Cagney was already halfway across and I was catching up fast when I spotted the
Bedford OYD tucked away in the far corner of the square. The army truck hadn't been there the night
before, nor the night before that, so I figured the Blackshirts had arrived in it earlier that morning - a
military vehicle suited their martial games just fine.
One of them, on his own and presumably the driver, straightened from the snub-nosed hood he'd been
leaning against, his jaw dropping open, cigarette falling from it His weapon must have been inside the cab
of the truck, because he was soon pulling at the driver's door. He'd guessed my intention and by now I
was too committed to change direction. He heaved himself up into the driver's seat.
Cagney had already disappeared into the shadows of the arch (which, incidentally, was beneath the
balcony room I'd holed up in for the past few days - I'd run full circle, you see) and I accelerated,
anxious to join him.
The Bedford quivered as the driver started her up, and then began to roll forward. Yeah, he'd guessed
my game plan all right and now I understood his: he was gonna plug the exit. Just to tighten things an arm
appeared through the open cab window and the black metal of a gun barrel pointed my way.
Maybe I could have tried for a different route at the last moment, through a courtyard behind me on my
right and out into the street beyond (the two other archways directly ahead were sealed by sandbags),
but like I say, I was committed. Besides, that would've meant slowing down, then offering my back as a
target; even if he'd missed with the first bullet, he'd have taken me with the second. No, there really was
only one choice and anyways, I was already two-thirds across and going a pretty fair lick.
A bright flash of gunfire came from the truck and even over the noise of the bike's 347cc engine I swear
I heard thethiddd of displaced air as the bullet passed by.
I rocked a little to spoil his aim, mighty glad that driving and shooting at the same time wasn't this
particular hero's speciality. That small pleasure lasted no more'n a heartbeat -it was plain the truck was
going to reach the archway ahead of me. Another shot cracked out, just as wild as the first one, but it
struck metal; the blackout shield over the front light whipped away. I tried a fancy swerve, but with every
second our common objective was drawing us closer together and soon he'd have a target he couldn't
miss. I hissed a curse - I mean, the beginning of one - when the Bedford's hood moved across the first
passageway; that curse changed to a rage-roar as the truck stole some of the archway.
The rattle of gunshots from behind reminded me the truck driver was not the only contender. A hail of
badly aimed bullets flailed the wall ahead. The Blackshirts chasing me were too far away and maybe too
excited to get off any decent shots as they came out of the double portico, but they sure as hell didn't
help the situation any. Luckily they were keeping their fire to the right to avoid hitting the moving Bedford
and from their angle truck and bike must've seemed pretty damn close. More puffs of plaster powdered
off the wall beside the second passageway and at any moment - we're talking split seconds here - I
expected to feel bullets thudding into my back.
Goddamn, the truck had covered the archway and the driver was slamming on his brakes to keep it that
way. It slid onwards though, bellying across the passage. Another gunshot, thecrack clear as a bell this
time - hell, I was close enough to see the joy in the driver's eyes - and I felt leather rip at my shoulder.
No numbness, no pain - no real damage.
I twitched the handlebars, no more'n a shrew's shrug, as the hood closed the gap, knowing I couldn't
stop now even if I'd wanted to.
I kept up the roar, jaw straining, eyes narrowed, hands clenched tight around the grips, bullets spewing
into the wall above and beside the passageway, truck still sliding, the hand with the gun waving at me, the
gap closing down, tighter, tighter -
And then I was through, elbow skimming along the truck's hood bar, leather sleeve on the other side
scuffing plaster. I was in the cool shade of the short passageway, my roar hollow-sounding, and then I
was out again in bright, glorious sunshine, tearing over the wide forecourt for the open gates, their gilded
ironwork rotting to rust, the tall railings on either side worthless protection against the death that had
claimed almost all, bloodline having no privilege over blood type.
Through the gates I sped, and around the old queen's memorial, past the statues of women and children
I'd gazed at from the balcony room less than ten minutes ago, round to the other side where Victoria
herself sat feeing the long, elm- and lime-lined Mall. I swear I could feel her mournful eyes on my back as
I fled Buckingham Palace, heading for another sanctuary in the dead city. Half a century ago she'd been
proud mother to a fabulous empire and a great country; now there was nothing left of empire and
precious little of country. Better then those eyes were only of stone.
Gunfire broke the thought that was fleeting anyway. I had a straight run ahead of me and I took full
advantage: the Matchless approached seventy and I knew I could coax more out of her.
If I was gonna lose those bastards behind me I'd have to.
2
ST JAMES'S PALACE and Clarence House to my left, the overgrown park and lake on my right Sally
and me, we'd fed the swans in that park and laid together on the moist spring grass. But that was another
lifetime, a different age, and this was now. Crazy that memories should override all other considerations,
even at moments like this, choosing their own time, it seemed to me, with a mercilessness that suggested
self-torture. But they were my link with the past, and the past was all I had left.
I avoided the few cars parked along the road, some of them askew, doors wide as if the drivers had
skidded to a halt and attempted to flee before the Reaper finished his job. Probably there were bodies -
rotted corpses or loose suits of bones - still inside some of them, but I wasn't looking, I had other things
in mind.
The mutt, his sandy-brown coat glistening damp gold in the sunlight, looked over his shoulder as he
heard me coming up. He didn't break pace any, but seemed pleased to see me.
'Lose yourself, stupid!'I yelled at him as I drew level.'Get off the road!'
I swerved into him to give him a fright and he veered away, making for a flight of stone steps leading off
the main hike. I watched him go and returned my attention to the road just in time to avoid a Wolseley
parked sideways across the Mall's centre. Its passenger window suddenly shattered inwards and the
metalwork of its doors punctured as bullets tore into it. The shots were wild, but that didn't mean they
couldn't get lucky. I straightened up, keeping the Wolseley at my back, using it as a temporary shield.
Those Blackshirts were acting like good ol' boys from down South out on a nigger hunt, rednecks on a
roust, the local sheriff one of 'em. Back home we'd pretended that kind of bigot didn't exist - theirs was
another state anyways, a foreign country almost - and when the news informed us otherwise, we'd be
pretty damn certain some black buck had raped another white girl so he, along with all his blackass
cousins, was getting exactly what he deserved. You might say these days my opinion on such things has
changed a little, 'specially now I'd kind of taken the place of that black boy.
Admiralty Arch loomed up, sandbags piled high in front of the doorways and windows of buildings
around it, red London buses and other vehicles clearly visible in the square on the other side. I kept the
Matchless on a set course, building speed, putting distance between me and the truck behind. The roads
through the arches had been narrowed some by barbed wire and guard boxes, but that was no problem
for the bike -I was through in the blink of an eye and into the great square beyond.
With its loose jumble of immobile vehicles, Trafalgar Square looked like one of those frozen pictures you
used to see sometimes on a movie screen, as if at any moment the action would start right up again and
everything would get going, engines rumbling, car horns honking, people jerking into life. Last time Sally
had brought me here - she was like an excited kid showing me the sights - the square and the sky above
it had been full of grey pigeons; now even they were gone. The dry fountains with their silent sirens under
Nelson's Column were surrounded by wooden barricades and where sections were broken or had fallen
flat I could see brick shelters inside. I had it in mind to take refuge in one of them, or even hide behind a
barricade, but as I dodged between cars, taxicabs and buses, something moving caught my eye.
I'd never quite worked out how many survivors Hubble had recruited into his Fascist army - the
Blackshirts had always appeared in small groups before now - but had figured their numbers to be
maybe a hundred or so, and today they seemed to be out in force. Right then another vehicle was
heading towards me and from its camouflage marking this one also had to be military. I paused long
enough to establish it was a Humber heavy utility, a four-door station wagon that could carry at least
seven passengers over heavy terrain. Like the Matchless I was riding, it was probably intended for the
North Africa Campaign but never made it overseas. The Humber was entering the square from the
Strand and as I watched it nudged a black cab aside, then swung round a double-decker bus.
I took off in the opposite direction, weaving through the still traffic and catching a glimpse of the Bedford
pushing its way past the barbed-wire barricades of Admiralty Arch as I did so. The Humber and the
Bedford had to be in contact with one another by radio, maybe by one of those walkie-talkies, but I was
confident I could outrun 'em both, the bike ideal for slipping through blocked roads and over debris. If it
hadn't been for gasoline rationing during the war years, the roads would've been a lot more crowded,
which would've suited me fine. No matter, I still had the advantage.
A bus poster wanted to know if I'd Macleaned my teeth today, while a board at the base of Nelson's
Column said that England expected me to enlist today. I went on my way, steering around a quaint little
English taxi that looked like an upright piano on wheels, its headlights masked to narrow crosses, and
past a Dodge van with a loudspeaker mounted on its roof, then squeezing by a platform truck carrying
huge casks of God-knows-what, all of these vehicles abandoned by their drivers and passengers three
years before, Blood Death victims who had not understood what was happening to their bodies, why
their arterial veins were suddenly hardening and swelling, becoming rigid beneath their skins, why their
hands were darkening, extremities filling, why smaller veins were becoming engorged, bulging then
popping beneath the surface, blood beginning to trickle, then stream, from every orifice, their ears, their
eyes, their nostrils, their mouth, from their genitals, their anus, from the very pores of their body, not
realizing that their main arteries had begun to coagulate, their body's clotting factors all used up by their
major organs, the brain, the heart, the kidneys, causing instantaneous haemorrhaging and necrotic bruising
elsewhere, their chests and limbs cramping with agonizing pain until their skin split and everything vital
stopped functioning, their curiosity, their awe, their fear and panic lasting mere minutes because the Blood
Death held no patience and no pity, each of them dying wherever they happened to fall.
Yeah, and they were the lucky ones - their horror was short-lived, literally, and their suffering only
transient; although few in number, thereally unfortunate victims took longer to die, some even years. And
then there were the rest of us, the minority, those left to grieve.
I kept pushing on, blocking thoughts, concentrating on escape. The idea was to get lost in the dead city,
then hole up in some dark place and wait. That was the idea. The reality was something else.
A black Ford was heading towards me from the direction I'd intended to take, making me wonder if
Hubble had every exit to the square covered. It seemed in no hurry, but was making good progress
anyway, dodging in and out of frozen traffic as if the driver was enjoying the caper. It disappeared behind
a bus marked EVACUATION SPECIAL, then its roof appeared among the jumble of other car roofs,
threading its way through, coming closer all the time. Someone behind me blasted their horn hard and
mean, a signal to the others maybe that I was outflanked. It was easy to picture their grinning faces.
But the game was a long ways from over. I had two choices: I could either evade the approaching Ford,
using other vehicles as shields against the potshots they were bound to take at me; or I could cut across
the square itself.
There were no breaks in the barrier closest to me, but those boards looked fragile enough - several
winters of wind, rain and snow, with no one around to maintain them, must have left them rotted and
feeble. It didn't take long to make the choice.
I stood loose-legged on the footrests, helping the bike hop the kerb, then sat firm, shoulders hunched,
head tow, as bike and I flashed past the bronze lions guarding the giant column holding the old one-eyed
sailor. I hit wood and it offered minimal resistance, splintering into mouldered pieces, my speed taking me
through too fast so that I only just missed the waterless fountain on the other side. I zoomed around one
of the redundant brick shelters behind the barrier and, hardly slowing, I made for the broad set of steps
that led up to the square's higher level, a road that ran past the great art museum, praying the Matchless
would be able to take them, an insistent little voice inside my head telling me I was crazy, that those steps
might not be steep, but they werehard, bone-breakinghard, with no carpet this time to soften the impact.
I stood on the "stirrups' again, pulling at the handlebars, trying, I guess, to coax the bike to fly. We hit the
steps...
... too fast, too hard...
The Matchless rose up several of them, but the front wheel reared out of control, the handlebars bucking
and twisting in my grip. We toppled backwards, machine trying for a backflip with me doing my best to
dissuade it. I had no real choice though, I had to let go. The engine whined as I slid down the seat and
tumbled back, away from the steps and falling machine, arms raised over my head to protect myself.
The bike keeled over, falling at an angle and hitting stone with a crash of metal. I rolled clear as it
bounced down after me and, with a moan of engine and a jingling of busted parts, the bike settled in the
space I'd just occupied. I knew better than to try and start it up again - it was finished and I was in even
more trouble.
I forced myself to a kind of crouch, groaning at fresh pains in my left leg and back, but wasting no time
摘要:

JamesHerbert:'48 v1.020-nov-01OCR'd600DPIb/wwithFinereader5.0,layoutwithW2Kandfullproofby4iPublications.Thisdocumentshouldbe99%errorfree,giveortakeafewmissingquotationmarks.Ifyouproofreadorchangethisdocument,pleaseretaintheexistingversioninformation.Alsoindicatewhathasbeenimproved(proofreading,layou...

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