Combustion Page 9

  ‘I didn’t get to the bus in time —’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ Corey jabs a thumb to the left. Judd follows it to the unharmed group of schoolchildren and their elderly bus driver, who climb an emergency stairwell beneath the overpass. ‘But I did.’

  A profound sense of relief sweeps over Judd. ‘Well done, son.’

  Corey grins his crooked grin. ‘I only told them to get off. You did the hard bit.’

  That’s true, and Judd couldn’t be happier the children are safe, but still, he can’t help thinking that, once again, at the critical moment, he didn’t rise to the occasion, he didn’t save them, he wasn’t the man the world thought him to be.

  A siren blares and an engine strains. Judd and Corey turn to the sound, see an ambulance speed along the freeway’s far lane. It’s the first emergency vehicle they’ve seen since the explosions began. Their eyes flick to its exhaust.

  It’s pitch black.

  Corey shoots Judd a concerned look. ‘That’s never good —’

  Boom. The explosion flips the ambulance onto its side and it skids along the freeway for fifty metres. Golden sparks spray as fast steel meets stationary bitumen, then it clips the cement retaining wall, flips over it and disappears into the brush on the other side.

  *

  17

  Alvy Blash comes to with a gasp.

  He lies on the ceiling of the ambulance, the vehicle upside down and tilted at a steep angle. He can see thick brush out the shattered front windscreen. From the panicked comments of the paramedics as they raced him to hospital, he knows the Swarm is to blame for his current predicament. Bunsen sure didn’t waste any time with his ‘urban deployment’.

  Alvy feels woozy, not from the accident so much as his twin gunshot wounds, which the paramedics tried to patch as best as they could. Alvy turns, looks at the medic who was in the back with him. Blood trickles from his ears and nose, evidence of a traumatic head injury. The guy is dead, no doubt about it. Alvy shifts his eyes and takes in the driver. The poor schmuck’s been impaled by the branch that shattered the windscreen.

  Alvy is horrified. This is his fault. He created the Swarm. Even if he never intended it to be used this way it is still his responsibility to put right. He must tell the authorities what is going on and give them a sample of the counteragent. He’s the only one who can do it. But first he must get out of this ambulance before Kilroy finds him. The old man is nothing if not thorough and will not stop until he knows Alvy is dead.

  Alvy turns towards the rear doors and the ambulance shudders, slides down the incline, then stops. Alvy looks out the shattered front windscreen. What’s left of the vehicle’s nose pokes through the brush that blocked his view a moment ago.

  Directly in front of the vehicle is a bracingly steep twenty-metre incline to a wall, then a sheer drop to a car park that is, at best guess, ten metres below that, a fall that would either be fatal or never-walk-again-bad if he were to make it in this upside-down ambulance.

  He turns to the rear doors again and the ambulance slides towards the drop once more - then stops.

  A noise in the distance. Someone crunches through the brush towards the ambulance.

  Kilroy.

  Damn it.

  The sound grows louder, draws closer quickly, then stops. Alvy waits, heart in mouth, for a volley of bullets to strafe the vehicle, or for it to be simply kicked down the incline and over the edge.

  ‘Anyone in there?’

  That’s not Kilroy’s voice. It doesn’t have the ponytailed bastard’s flat southern twang.

  ‘Yes - yeah! I’m okay, but the paramedics are dead.’

  ‘Need some help, mate?’

  That’s a second voice. He’s pretty sure the accent is Australian.

  ‘Yes! Every time I move, it slides down —’

  The ambulance slides down the incline.

  ‘Grab it!’

  Alvy hears bushes thrash, then thumps on the side of the vehicle - then the ambulance stops.

  ‘I didn’t even move that time!’

  ‘Christ!’ The American voice is strained.

  ‘Jeez Louise!’ The Australian voice is little more than a grunt. ‘Okay, mate, get out.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘She’ll be right.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means!’

  ‘It means get moving ‘cause we can’t hold this bloody thing all day!’

  ‘Oh. Okay!’ Alvy starts towards the rear hatch and the ambulance slides again.

  The Australian voice rings out. ‘Crikey! You got it?’

  The American answers. ‘Yeah, but the ground - it’s collapsing under my feet! I can’t get a foothold.’

  A dog barks.

  ‘Unless you just grew a pair of hands, no, you can’t help! Now get out of the bloody way!’

  What’s a dog doing there? Alvy pushes the thought from his mind and continues towards the rear doors. It’s slow going. His head swims and the gunshot wounds throb but he ignores it all because he can feel the ambulance pick up speed.

  He pushes the rear doors open and sees two men trying their best to slow the ambulance as it skis down the incline. Alvy is momentarily stunned to realise they look just like the astronaut and chopper pilot from the Atlantis 4.

  The Australian barks at him: ‘You waiting on an invitation, mate?!’

  And the American doubles down: ‘Get out now!’

  Alvy leaps out - and the men let go of the ambulance. Sprawled on the ground, the scientist watches the vehicle slide noiselessly down the incline, reach the bottom, flip over the edge and crash into the parking lot below. He lets out a deep sigh of relief - then everything fades to black.

  *

  Corey and Judd carry the unconscious bloke to the freeway’s cement retaining wall, not far from where the ambulance flipped into the brush, and lay him down. Corey studies his blanched face. ‘He doesn’t look so hot.’

  Judd feels his pulse. ‘He’s alive but he needs a doc.’

  The man’s eyes flutter open and he takes in Judd and Corey. ‘It is you.’ He grins weakly.

  Corey knows that smile, has seen it many times before. The guy is a fan of the Atlantis 4 and, in spite of everything that’s happened to him, is excited to be in their presence.

  ‘You saved me - that is so cool. You’re my biggest fan - I mean I’m your biggest - you know what I mean.’ He forces another smile then realises he doesn’t have the energy for that. ‘Oh boy, I’m not feeling so great.’

  ‘I’m gonna call for help.’ Corey instinctively pulls out Bowen’s iPhone and dials 911, then immediately realises that it’s a useless gesture. Even if he managed to have an ambulance sent here, wouldn’t it just explode on the way? It’s a moot point anyway as the line is engaged. ‘It’s busy.’

  The man nods resignedly, his voice a low rasp. ‘I deserve it - it’s - this is all my fault.’

  Judd checks the dressing on his wounds. ‘What’s your fault?’

  ‘This.’ He raises a finger skyward. ‘What’s happening to the city.’

  Judd glances at Corey, then turns to the man. ‘You’re saying - what are you saying, exactly?’

  ‘I designed it - the Swarm - it’s my fault.’

  Corey studies him like he’s a crazy person. ‘The Swarm? What’s the Swarm?’

  ‘A nanotech virus. Enters a combustion engine through the air intake, infects the gasoline, turns the exhaust purple, then - boom.’ His eyes turn to the sky. ‘It’s airborne, adheres to particulates in smoke and exhaust, uses carbon monoxide for fuel as it self-replicates. Lives in the smog - has a half-life of fifteen years.’

  Corey finds this very hard to believe. ‘It lives in the smog? Are you - is this a joke?’

  The man shakes his head, sees the scepticism on his face. ‘I wish. It was designed for military use as a first-strike weapon - to disable the enemy’s war machines before the fighting began. It was never meant for urban deployment. I tried to stop them, but —’ He shi
fts painfully, his voice barely a whisper. ‘ — that didn’t work out so well.’

  Judd leans close. ‘Who did this to you?’

  ‘Ponytailed mofo - from Louisiana.’ The man’s breathing is laboured now, his face drained of colour. ‘They wanted me dead - so I couldn’t stop it —’

  Judd leans closer. ‘How do you stop it?’

  ‘The counteragent.’ The man’s eyes move between Judd and Corey. ‘It’s like an antidote - the only thing that will work. The only thing. It needs to be synthesised, replicated, added to the gasoline supply - you must take it to the authorities.’ The man drags in a ragged breath. ‘The only samples are at - 1138 - South Carmelina -Apartment 7 - the freezer - the code is 274.’

  Judd’s confused. ‘The code? What code?’

  The man’s head slumps to the side, his pupils pinned.

  ‘Oh.’ Corey feels his neck for a pulse, then shakes his head, surprised. ‘He’s gone. Poor bastard.’ They study him for a grave moment, then Corey gently closes his eyes. ‘Jeez, what a story.’

  ‘You don’t believe it?’ The tone of Judd’s question says he’s not sure himself.

  ‘An airborne virus? That infects gasoline? And lives in the smog? No.’

  ‘It explains what’s going on.’

  ‘Or that he made up a story.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’

  ‘It’s Los Angeles. The town was built by people who make up stories.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘I mean, really - and the stuff about the ponytailed mofo from Louisiana? Sounds like a bad movie, mate.’

  Spike barks.

  ‘What?’ Corey turns to Spike, who peers over the retaining wall. Corey looks over it too and suddenly he’s very unhappy. ‘Remember when I said it sounded like a bad movie?’

  ‘It was five seconds ago.’

  ‘Well, I think this is the part where the scary music starts playing.’

  ‘What?’ Judd follows Corey’s line of sight to a ponytailed man who strides across the freeway towards them from a parked silver Toyota Prius. He’s thirty metres away and closes fast.

  Judd watches him closely. ‘Is that — ?’

  ‘Looks like a ponytail to me.’

  ‘The ponytailed mofo from Louisiana.’

  Corey nods at the dead man with a hopeful expression. ‘Maybe he’s just coming over to check on his buddy here —’

  From inside his jacket the ponytailed man draws a Glock 9mm pistol.

  ‘— though that seems unlikely.’

  Ponytail aims the pistol and fires.

  ‘Down!’ They both duck behind the retaining wall.

  Thud, thud, thud. Bullets slam into the cement.

  Spike barks.

  Corey nods. ‘Yes, he is a mofo.’ He turns to Judd. ‘We gotta get the flock outta here.’

  Judd nods and surveys the immediate area. There are only two options. The freeway in front or the undergrowth behind. He turns to Corey. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’

  The Australian nods, and they move fast, stay low.

  *

  Weapon raised, finger tight on the trigger, Kilroy peers over the cement retaining wall. Alvy’s body lies on the ground but the two good Samaritans who pulled him from the ambulance are gone.

  Kilroy raises his eyes, scans the steep incline. He can’t see them because the vegetation is so thick and he can’t hear them over the distant explosions, but he knows they’re in there. He silently glides into the brush. They have a lead on him but don’t appear to be armed so he doesn’t think they’ll be difficult to deal with. What does concern him is the fact he missed them in the first place. Yes, he’s well over sixty and yes, he’s lost a step this last year, but still, he’s never missed twice in one day. He’s never considered retiring, but, well, maybe this is a sign. He’ll think on it when this is over and done with.

  After Alvy crashed into the police cruiser, Kilroy followed the ambulance he was transferred into for a good fifteen minutes, then lost it as Phase Two kicked in and the roads became gridlocked. He picked the ambulance up again as he crossed the freeway’s overpass, then saw it explode and flip over the retaining wall. He was on his way to make sure Alvy was dead when the two men turned up and saved his tubby arse.

  Looking at them from a distance he could swear they were two of the guys from the Atlantis 4. If he’s correct, Kilroy would like nothing better than to sit down, have a beer with them and discuss their feats of derring-do. Instead he will have to kill them because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He must presume Alvy told them everything. He may be wrong, of course, they may know nothing, but he needs to be sure there are no comebacks. That’s the reason he’s on Bunsen’s payroll after all, to fix problems like this, though usually the problems are not of his own making.

  For many years Kilroy performed the same job for Bunsen’s father. He was enlisted by the old man to, amongst other things, watch over and, if need be, rein in, his idealistic son. Kilroy had indeed watched over the boy, had been his only functional parent once the mother left, but had never reined him in because, well, he approved of everything the boy did. Until today. Today they’d had a difference of opinion, but Kilroy had let himself be persuaded by the boy’s arguments. It wasn’t that difficult to do because he trusted Bunsen implicitly.

  Pistol up, Kilroy glides through the undergrowth. It’s difficult terrain, the ground is surprisingly steep and he can’t hear much over the explosions that bang and pop in the distance. He reaches the bottom of the incline and peeks over the steep drop to a sprawling car park below. It looks like it belongs to some kind of church, which burns furiously, watched by a handful of parishioners. He can’t help but wonder where their god is now. There is one fire truck in attendance, but that is also alight. Directly below he can make out Alvy’s ambulance, upside down and still smouldering. There’s no sign of the men or the dog, though he doubts they’re down there anyway. There are no stairs and to jump would be a death wish.

  Where’d they go? He turns back to the brush and listens, tries to hear something, anything, over the explosions.

  *

  Judd slides through the last of the vegetation, Corey right behind him, Spike bringing up the rear. They vault the cement retaining wall and land on the shoulder of the freeway. They’re about fifty metres down the road from where they entered the undergrowth.

  Corey turns to Judd and whispers: ‘It worked!’

  Judd looks at Corey, presses his index finger to his lips and speaks in a very low voice: ‘When you whisper it’s louder than when you speak normally. Keep it down.’

  Corey nods apologetically, mouths: ‘Sorry.’ He knows the last thing they need is for the ponytailed guy to know they’re out of the brush.

  Judd turns, searches for options, takes in the overpass above, then looks to the opposite side of the freeway and the emergency stairwell near the far pylon, the one the schoolkids used earlier. It seems a long, long way away, at least twenty seconds at full speed, but it’s the only place that offers them an escape or, at the very least, cover. Judd points to it. There’s no argument from the Australian. Those stairs are the only game in town. They go, sprint for it.

  Judd takes in the freeway as they run. It looks worse than it did even a couple of minutes ago: packed with burning vehicles for as far as he can see, countless pillars of dark smoke swirling skywards. In the slanting afternoon light he notices the smoke has a purple tinge. What did that guy say? It lives in the smog.

  Judd hears the brush thrash behind them.

  Ponytail.

  Christ.

  Judd glances back at the undergrowth. He sounds close. It won’t be long before he’s out. They need to be at the stairs before that happens. Judd glances at the Aussie. ‘Must run faster —’

  Boom. The loudest explosion yet spanks the air. It sounds like the end of the world. Judd and Corey flinch involuntarily but keep running, unsure what just happened. Judd scans the freeway, searches for the source
of the sound.

  ‘Look up.’ Corey sounds both frightened and amazed.

  Judd looks up - then wishes he hadn’t.

  It’s not good news.

  A kilometre away a large airliner - he can’t see if it’s an Airbus or a Boeing - lists sharply to one side and veers directly towards the freeway - and them - a burning stump where its left engine used to be. A blanket of burning debris, pieces of that lost engine, tumble to earth behind it.

  They keep running but Judd’s not sure what good it will do. That large airliner is going to belly-flop onto the freeway right in front of them and destroy everything in its path for kilometres - and it’s going to happen in about fifteen seconds.

  He glances back as the brush thrashes and Ponytail emerges, pistol in hand. He clocks Judd and in one smooth movement raises the weapon and aims at the astronaut. Judd’s eyes meet his - and then he does the only thing he can think of.

  He points at the doomed airliner.

  *

  It is Judd Bell.

  Kilroy squeezes the trigger, can’t quite believe he’s about to kill one of the Atlantis 4 -

  What’s he doing? He’s pointing at something. Kilroy’s first thought is that it’s a ruse, the oldest, simplest ruse in the book actually, pointing at something ‘over there’ that doesn’t exist, the guy hoping Kilroy will look at it so he can escape. Kilroy won’t fall for that - yet there’s something about the expression on the guy’s face that tells him it’s no trick, that Kilroy should, in fact, turn and look. He decides to do just that, as soon as he shoots him.

  Kilroy’s finger tightens on the trigger -

  It’s not the man that makes Kilroy turn and look, it’s the noise. He does it involuntarily because the sound is so loud and terrible. Kilroy’s surprised to find it comes from the turbofan of a large airliner, which drops towards the freeway he is standing beside. By Kilroy’s rough calculation its left wing will land on him within the next ten seconds.

  ‘Shit.’ He pivots and launches himself back into the brush, to put as much space between him and that wing as possible. So it was a ruse, and it worked perfectly. Props to Judd Bell. Not only is he a national hero, he was clever enough to save his own life by sparing Kilroy’s.