They all took it in the end, even Golding. Huxley felt the historian would have demanded to be put ashore if a fresh bout of screams hadn’t echoed from the south bank as he limped about the aft deck, hypo in hand. “Sixty seconds,” Pynchon warned him. He leaned in the wheelhouse hatchway, carbine at his side. “I’m counting. Make your mind up time, History Man.”
“Fuck off,” Golding shot back, continuing his back-and-forth course.
Pynchon replied with a surprisingly affable smile. “Forty-five seconds now. I’d be happy to take you ashore if you want to walk it from here.” He gestured at the bank, a part-flooded array of concrete ugliness rendered into abstract sculpture by the fog, thicker than ever now. Golding stopped, staring at the passing array of hard-edged shadows. His posture told of rigid stubbornness that shifted into slumped resignation when the screams began. They were the most discordant and indecipherable yet. The product of at least a dozen throats emitting elongated words that weren’t words interspersed with screams resonant with every heightened emotion, running the gamut from confusion, to pain, to a concordance of bewildered ecstasy. Despite the dissonance, Huxley felt there to be a strange kind of unity in that sound. Although tonally incoherent, the volume of each voice rose and fell in concert, like a choir following the same conductor even though they all sang a different song.
Whatever its origin or purpose, it was enough to convince Golding that a solo expedition through this city would be ill advised. “Fuck you,” he spat, pressing the hypo to his arm. “Fuck you. Fuck this fucking boat. This fucking river. This fucking city. These fucking diseased bastards.” He grimaced at the momentary pain of the needle piercing his skin then tossed the applicator over the side. “Fuck it all.”
“Spoken like a truly educated man,” Pynchon said, disappearing into the wheelhouse.
The boat continued its steady, walking-pace course for another ten minutes before the engines faded once again into station-keeping quiescence. The reason rose before them in stark, ruinous clarity.
“Bet that put a dent in the tourist trade,” Golding said. Although calmer since his outburst, his attempt at humour was forced, spoken in a strained rapid tumble of words.
“Waterloo Bridge?” Huxley asked him.
He shook his head. “Westminster.”
“Looks like someone decided to blow it up at some point.” Pynchon put his eye to his carbine sight and swept it over the concrete and iron wreckage barring their path from bank to bank. “We’d need ten times the amount of C-4 we have to make any kind of hole in this.”
Huxley’s eyes inevitably wandered to the tall, gothic silhouette rising beyond the remains of the bridge. It was so innately familiar he worried it might stir a memory, but the absence of pain led him to conclude this could be the first time he was seeing the actual tower of Big Ben with his own eyes. They had just passed another postcard icon in the form of the gargantuan Ferris wheel Golding named the London Eye. Its upper arc was lost to the fog, the visible structure featuring some damage; jagged holes marred the glass walls of its bus-sized capsules and scorch marks defaced its otherwise pristine white majesty. The survival of these monuments, and the intact Tower Bridge, made Huxley ponder if their immunity to destruction arose from the indifference of madness or a residual reverence among the Diseased. It also struck him how quickly he and the others had adopted Abigail’s term for the infected, something Plath ascribed to an innate human tendency towards appellation.
“It’s a hard-wired survival trait,” she explained. “To warn the rest of the tribe to avoid the hunting grounds of a smilodon, you have to know what it’s called. It also serves to collectivise the enemy into a faceless mass, something inhuman. They aren’t people any more, they’re the Diseased.”
“Well,” Golding said, extending a hand to the ruined bridge, “I’d name that the end of this road.”
This time Huxley was unsurprised when the sat-phone began its low-pitched chirping. “The obstacle ahead requires airdropped ordnance to clear,” the phone-voice stated with the usual absence of preamble. “Accuracy is essential and on-board systems lack the resolution for precise targeting. Take one of the beacons from the hold and place it in the centre of the obstacle. Infected survivors are particularly active in this area so all crew members will take part in this mission to provide security and ensure success. Once the beacon is activated return to the boat. It will retire to a safe distance.” Once again its sign off consisted of only clicks then silence.
“Looks like we’re going for a jaunt after all,” Pynchon said, shouldering his weapon and heading for the ladder. “Seems a good time to break out the flame-throwers.”
The stretch of river separating the boat from the bulk of the ruined bridge resembled an arctic seascape in miniature, jagged bergs of cracked concrete rising from the busy current. The channels in between were thick with steel cables and mangled girders that made navigating it all an unwelcome if unavoidable prospect. Huxley assumed the inflatable would require two trips to convey them all to the artificial ridge created by the wrecked bridge, but the small craft accommodated their collective weight with surprising ease. Pynchon took charge of one of the flame-throwers and gave the other to Plath, apparently having judged her the least likely to hesitate in using it. Both north and south banks of the river were flooded by water comparatively free of obstacles, but Pynchon opted against an indirect approach.
“We don’t know what’s out there,” he said. “Get in. Get it done. Get out. Simplicity is always the best tactic.”
Huxley took up position at the prow, scanning the concrete and steel jungle as Pynchon steered them carefully through worryingly narrow channels. It seemed to take an absurdly long time to cover just half the distance to their objective, Huxley finding he had to flex his fingers to work out the ache of gripping his carbine. As he began to raise the weapon again, he caught a flash of something below the surface, a shimmering orange blur beneath the swirl. It pulsed then glided swiftly deeper, vanishing in an instant.
“You see that?” He raised himself up, carbine trained on the water. “Maybe they’ve mutated, gone aquatic or something.”
“It was an octopus,” Golding told him, not bothering to keep the mirth from his voice. He inclined his head at the mostly destroyed Edwardian-era building south of the ruined bridge. “County Hall, once the seat of local government, later home to the London Aquarium. I guess the inmates took the chance to liberate themselves when the river broke its banks. If we’re lucky we might see a shark next.”
Huxley’s pique at the historian’s tone died at the sight of his face. Golding stared into each passing shadow with wide, barely blinking eyes, face rigid with the kind of immobility that arose from terror rather than fear. Moving on, they saw no more octopuses, or sharks, but Huxley did glimpse a few shoals of colourful, darting fish. The contagion that had laid waste to this city may have scoured it of animal life above the surface, but he took a minute crumb of comfort from the knowledge that aquatic life continued below.
He saw the body by chance, something in the periphery of his vision he would have missed but for the red shirt cladding its torso. Putting his eye to the carbine’s optical sight, he saw it was a man, slumped on his side on a grid of intersecting steel bars. Killed when the bridge got blown up, he judged. Or swam here later, for whatever reason. Another weird death in a city full of corpses. Thousands, probably millions of stories had ended here in a vast and forever unknowable cavalcade of horrors. He began to track the carbine away then paused as he noticed something about the body.
“Hold up,” he called over his shoulder to Pynchon. “Something we need to check out.”
Pynchon shook his head, hand keeping the same angle on the tiller. “Get in, get out.”
“It’s important.” Huxley glared at him in insistence, receiving an indifferent glance in return.
“The more we find out the better our chances,” Plath said. “At least slow down enough for a decent look.”
Pynchon’s jaw tensed but he consented to close the throttle a little. When the object of Huxley’s interest came fully into view Pynchon needed no encouragement to shut down the engine, allowing them to drift closer to the body.
“That’s new,” Rhys said, playing the laser dot on her carbine over the vine-like growth emerging from the body. The corpse lay with its face pressed into the metal lattice, the growth sprouting from the base of the neck. Its red hue was too dark to be the result of staining by the body’s fluids. It formed a half-twisted coil that abruptly bisected where it met the steel grid, expanding into sub-branches to create a matrix of root-like tendrils entwined about the rusted metalwork.
“Some symptom of the disease, obviously,” Plath said. “We know it alters morphology.”
“In the living,” Rhys said, squinting as she leaned forward for a closer look. “This looks post-mortem. Can’t see any signs of healing or scars around the point where it exits the body.”
“You know of any disease that does this?” Huxley asked her.
“Some pathogens will live on in a host body after death, but this is…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Assuming it’s caused by the same infection, it has to be a multi-stage organism. Probably part of its reproductive process. More like a parasite than a disease.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t hang around so close to it,” Golding said.
“We’ve been exposed since we entered this city. Maybe even before. The fog isn’t really fog, remember.”
“And we’re inoculated,” Pynchon reminded them. “Sorry, Doc. This is all fascinating and everything but we need to get on.”
He reactivated the outboard, resuming their wayward course through the part-submerged remnants of the bridge. “This’ll have to do,” he said, bringing the boat to a halt at the base of a huge concrete slab which offered a steep but climbable slope to the approximate centre of the thickest stretch of rubble. “Mister Policeman. History Man. You’re up.”
“Still the most expendable, am I?” Huxley enquired.
“Second most.” Pynchon’s gaze shifted to Golding, offering a patently false smile of apology. “Chances of success are doubled if two go. We’re the base of reinforcements if anything goes wrong.”
To Huxley’s surprise, Golding made no objection, merely sighing in resigned annoyance before hefting his carbine and preparing to jump from the inflatable. Despite his leg injury, he performed the feat of leaping onto the concrete slope with surefooted alacrity, albeit accompanied by a painful wince. Huxley’s attempt was less impressive. His boots skidded on the surface and he came close to sliding into the water before Golding reached out a steadying hand.
“Where do we put it?” Huxley asked Pynchon when the soldier tossed him the targeting beacon.
“In the centre, like the phone said.” Pynchon held up the other beacon. “Back-up in case you two… well, y’know. Activate it by pressing the big button on the side twice. You’ll hear a beep when it powers up. Make sure you place it on top of the rubble, not below anything, so it can be seen from the air.” Another blandly insincere smile. “Haven’t got all day.”
“He’s really enjoying himself,” Golding said in a low mutter as they started climbing. “I’m still pretty sure I didn’t volunteer for this, but I’d lay odds he did.”
They got to the top quickly, finding a narrow summit of jagged rubble spiked with twisted steel rebars. After a quick survey, they headed for a flatter expanse of wreckage a few dozen yards to the right. “I mean,” Golding continued, grunting with the effort of hauling himself across, “you’d think that absence of memory would strip away personality, or at least transform it. But soldier boy is still very much a soldier. I’m still a historian. Rhys is still a doctor. You’re still a cop.”
“And Plath?”
Golding inclined his head a little, letting out a snort. “Not entirely sure we had it right about the scientist thing, are you? The fun she had shooting those poor bastards back there was quite something.”
“You noticed.”
“I think it’s what I do, notice things. Useful trait for a historian. Bit like you with your detective brain, I guess.”
They came to a stretch formed of two or more slabs smashed together to create a constricted, uneven pathway of sorts. Golding led the way, coming to a halt after a few short steps, transfixed by the sight of something underfoot. Following his gaze, Huxley saw a clawed hand frozen in the act of reaching up from a fissure in the concrete. Moving closer, he peered into the dark recess of the crack. The gloom was such he couldn’t make out the hand’s owner, but the state of the limb and digits made it clear they had been a Diseased. The bones were too large and the fingers too long, each one ending in a wicked, hooked barb.
“Like a demon clawing its way out of the underworld.” Golding angled his head to study the claw, brow set in a reflective furrow. “All places shall be hell.”
“What?”
Golding shrugged. “A line from Marlowe that bubbled up from somewhere. ‘When all the world dissolves, and every creature shall be purified, all places shall be hell that are not heaven.’”
“You think that’s what this is? Hell made real?”
“I don’t know. I do know we’re in pain, all of us, and I don’t mean whatever they put in our heads. Having no idea about who you are isn’t just confusing, it hurts. Without memory what are we? No one. Nothing. We don’t come from anywhere. We don’t belong anywhere. It’s like being dead except for some reason you keep breathing. We’re being made to suffer. And isn’t that what hell’s for? Not knowing why makes it all worse. It could be that I deserve this. It could be that I’m a very bad man and so are you. It could be this whole fucking nightmare is a fitting punishment. Because, if it’s not, then we’re all just victims of a very sick game.”
Huxley moved past him, climbing onto the upraised ironwork that formed the next portion of the barrier. “Based on what we know, I can’t help thinking Rhys is right: we’ve been sent to end this.” He crouched, extending a hand to Golding. “One other thing I’m sure of: there’s no going back. No escaping it. If we’re in hell, they made very sure we’re not getting out until this is done.”
“Redemption.” Golding took his hand and hauled himself up. “Classically the only escape from damnation. You really imagine that’s what’ll be waiting for us at the end of this river?”
“I’m starting to think if any of us could be redeemed we wouldn’t have been chosen.”
They placed the beacon atop a plinth that had somehow survived the bridge’s fall, remaining both intact and upright amid the chaos. “How do we know they won’t drop their bombs the moment we activate this?” Golding asked as Huxley’s finger hovered over the button.
“I don’t think we’re that expendable.” Huxley pressed the button twice, standing back to look at the sky as the beep sounded. “Besides, no airplane noise. I think we’ve got a while yet.”
They lost no time making their way back to the inflatable, scrambling aboard and reclaiming their carbines.
“Any idea how long?” Huxley asked the soldier as he reversed the outboard then angled the tiller to put the craft into a 180-degree turn. To Huxley’s surprise he saw a spasm of uncertainty pass across Pynchon’s face, a tension in his jaw and neck that told of pain. “Did that stir something up?” Huxley adjusted the grip on his carbine, a subtle movement intended to bring the trigger a little closer to his hand. It didn’t fool Pynchon, however.
“Seriously?” He raised an eyebrow and huffed a marginal laugh. “Just a feeling I’ve done this before but nothing specific. To answer your question: the battery life on the beacon is pretty long, so it could be an hour or more.”
“Look,” Golding said to Huxley as the craft began to accelerate. Turning, Huxley saw a smile play over the historian’s lips as he angled his head to peer into the water. “Another octopus…”
The appendage that shot out from the inflatable’s wake was no tentacle. It was hard rather than soft, jagged and bulging at intervals along its narrow, jointed length and ending in a slightly curved point that found no difficulty in skewering Golding through the neck. Huxley had time to take in the sight of the historian’s bloody, desperate features before the thing that had surely killed him plucked him from the boat. A splash, a flailing of rapidly disappearing legs, and he was gone.