Читать книгу Deep RED - Paul Kane - Страница 11

C h a p t e rT w o

“How’s the grub?”

Peel looked up to see the young girl called Pat standing in front of him. No, not girl—he wasn’t allowed to call her that. Young person, then. Much better. She was holding a tray with a bowl and cup on it, hovering around the seat opposite him. Peel held his hand out for her to sit, then spooned more of whatever it was he was eating into his mouth. Could well have been mashed up grubs for all he knew; looked like it; smelled like it too. But it actually tasted okay, and he wasn’t complaining.

“S’good,” he said to her, and she smiled as proudly as if she’d made it herself.

“Told you.” Pat began to shovel her own mixture into her mouth, inhaling it practically, pausing only to take swigs of an equally unidentifiable liquid from her cup. It was something he’d seen before, though not for a long time. Grabbing food and drink when you could. Eating quickly, because you never knew when you might get another meal—or even if you’d be able to finish the one you had.

Looking around him, though, Peel reckoned she’d be okay in here. The amount of soldiers present; how far they all were underground. But then she’d grown up out there, where he’d existed for so long. He’d at least had experience by the time everything hit the fan, couldn’t even imagine what she’d gone through as a kid out in the wilds, surviving until she was picked up by these people. She’d told him about some of it, broad strokes, but he could imagine the rest. Pat had been more interested in his story, really.

It was an unusual one, had to be said. So as they’d gone off tracking the wolf that got away a couple of nights ago, and after much pestering, he’d filled her in on the background. Didn’t seem any reason not to, wasn’t like it was some big secret or anything. In a way, it had been nice to tell someone about it. Nice to have the company as well. It had been a while since Peel had talked to anyone.

As he’d spoken, memories had come flooding back. Of leaving school, training to be a policeman just like his cousin had been; the one who’d died in mysterious circumstances during that business up in Norchester, which he always suspected had been covered up. Making constable then and waiting to be in the right place at the right time to investigate something big. And boy, had that come along—couldn’t have been any bigger, in fact.

First, those murders on the Greenham Estate. It had been put down to gangs initially because of the location; that place was always blowing up. But then more incidents had occurred, like the massacre in that nightclub (and he’d had to explain here to Pat what those were, because she’d never seen—let alone been in—one; “It’s the kind of place you’d be hanging around in on a Friday and Saturday night at your age,” he’d said, “if things hadn’t gone to Hell in a handbasket.”). He’d never seen anything like that crime scene, and neither had his superior, Moss. Body parts everywhere, blood everywhere. Commonplace now, sadly, but back then it had been pretty shocking. And eyewitnesses mentioning some kind of large dog, which chimed with a few of the statements from Greenham.

It had been a dog, all right, as he’d discovered himself later on.

He’d been there when the case started to come together, when they’d discovered the couple who seemed to be at the centre of it all—the attacks, the murders—and who they traced to a motel outside town. Peel had gone along with the big boys, with the armed response units, with his colleagues, in the middle of all the action. A takedown, an honest to God takedown, and he was going to be involved in it all—on the front ranks! Right place at the right time. Looking back, he couldn’t believe that he’d actually been excited about it. Thought it would be fun! Operation ‘Dogcatcher’ they’d called it, because they were entertaining some bizarre notion that the bloke was training ferocious animals to do his bidding. Christ ...

The slaughter which followed, when they’d surrounded the chalet that couple were in, had been the worst thing he’d ever seen in his life. And the most surreal. He’d watched as Moss had turned into ... something. Knew now it was one of those bloody mutts he’d devoted his entire life to tracking, to killing—but at the time he hadn’t had a clue what was going on. Didn’t know that it had killed his governor and taken his form, to infiltrate the group of police officers and cause maximum carnage. That the couple weren’t actually running this freakshow at all, they were running away from it, like he should have been doing if he’d had any sense.

It had taken them all by surprise, the bloodshed that ensued. Officers cleaved in half, heads flying in the air. Flying ... just like he’d done when that explosion happened, rolling the car he was in. Waking up, he’d surveyed the devastation and heard the cries coming from that motel room. Scrambling out of his upturned vehicle, he’d made it back there, grabbed a discarded rifle, and filled that hairy fuck full of lead ... At least he’d assumed it was lead. Turned out the gun had been filled with silver bullets, or he might not have made it out of that situation alive either.

There had been only two survivors of that night, him and the girl—her boyfriend having taken the thing on and paid the price. Problem was, the beast had reverted back to its human form by the time the authorities made it to the scene. Peel had done quite a bit of damage to it, made sure it was dead in fact by emptying the entire magazine into the body even after it had been felled, but in that state even he could tell it was female. Not a dog, not a wolf, but a woman he’d shot and killed.

There had been questions, of course, but the girlfriend had been practically useless. Refused to back up his side of what—admittedly—had sounded like a crazy story. How could one woman have torn through all those coppers, let alone the armed ones? She was a what? A wolf? Pull the other one! Then the girl had vanished, left him holding the can, and he’d been drummed out of the force. He always suspected there were those who believed him, however. The same folk who’d hushed up what happened to his cousin, who couldn’t let shit like that get out because it would cause a mass panic. Maybe it should have done, because when what happened happened, none of the public had been prepared for it at all. When those things rose up and started to take over, nobody had any hope of defeating them. Not even the muppets who thought they had a handle on it.

In the meantime, as he had done that night when he’d saved Pat, Peel had gone hunting. His little contribution to the cause, in an effort to thin the herd. But he’d been one man, alone, trying to stem the tide of something that would, in the end, wash over them all. He’d had his successes, saved a number of other lives in his time—lives that had probably been lost again once the chaos reigned—but in the end he was only ever going to win the battles, not the war. Afterwards, he’d simply carried on doing what he knew best, what he’d trained himself to do best. Hunt those furry arseholes, then take them out. One by one if he had to. Peel hadn’t been able to stop the world from becoming theirs, but he could avenge it. And maybe one day ...

He’d shaken his head at that, sighed. Had been surprised when he looked down and saw Pat’s hand in his as they walked.

“It’s what we’ve been fighting for as well,” she’d told him then with a smile. This kid who’d grown up in fear of her life every single day; who’d almost been savaged by wolves that had killed her friends back at the outpost; who still hadn’t given up hope, who still had faith everything would work out. “All of us. Let me show you.”

She’d persuaded him to return home with her—the only one she’d known for some time. To give up on the hunt ... for now. Pat still had to report back about what had gone down, and he looked like he could use a kip and some decent food.

“Come on. It’s safe there, honest.”

So, reluctantly, he’d agreed. Checking to make sure they were not being followed—that they weren’t being hunted themselves—she’d taken him back with her. To the base she had set out from to deliver her message. A base that made 7B look like a hovel, apparently. It was a bit of a trek, to the outskirts of the city through territory that had once been parks and woodland—an attempt to bring some colour and nature to an urban environment—but was now all scorched earth and stumps. Along the way they passed burnt out houses, one which would probably have been quite a nice cottage back in the day. Peel glanced in through the shattered windows and saw only the remains of furniture now, bookcases on their sides and a few scattered photographs. All that was left of the owners.

Eventually, however, Pat stopped and pointed. “That,” she’d said, “that is 1A.”

“What? That? A lump of rocks?” What his old mum might have called crags on a bank holiday day out, it looked just as out of place here as the grass and trees must have done. Just as battered as well, blackened and cracked in places; the edges worn not by time but by a relentless hail of missiles. Pat shook her head, and approached the structure with her hands in the air.

Almost immediately, several red dots appeared on her person. “Hold your fire. P 15022012 reporting,” she called out.

“You’re late returning,” came an electronic voice from somewhere, echoing as it spoke. “And who’s that with you?”

“Ran into some trouble,” Pat replied, thumbing back. “He helped me out of it.” She motioned for Peel to come forwards now and he did so, but kept his hands where they were, holding his axe, in spite of the fact those laser dots had found his body. “I can vouch for him.”

There was a long pause, during which Peel almost bolted. Then the voice came again: “Proceed!”

Pat began to walk forwards, toward that solid wall of rock in front of her, still beckoning him to follow. Frowning, he did so, wondering what they were going to do when they eventually reached it. Then he took another step and suddenly it all vanished, replaced by a black hole in the surface. The entranceway to a cave.

“Wha...?” He looked over at Pat, who couldn’t help smirking. Peel stepped back again, and all he could see was the rockface. Forwards another step and the opening returned. “A projection,” he stated, and she nodded, pointing up ahead.

They entered the cave, which seemed to go back much further than the rocks would allow, dipping slightly Peel thought. Until they came upon an archway and a set of metal doors.

“This is all a bit James Bond, isn’t it?” he said to nobody in particular.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” The doors opened then and he started.

“Come on,” Pat told him, taking his hand again and leading him inside. But not far, as another set of closed doors were blocking their progress this time. Then the ones behind them suddenly closed again. A bright white light illuminated the space, a room of about twenty foot square, polished surfaces surrounding them, throwing back their reflections whichever way they turned. If the dots and the voice outside, the projection, had been the first line of defence, this was surely the next: a way of wheedling out anyone pretending to be something they weren’t. Peel looked up and spotted a camera in the corner, observing it all.

There was a jolt, and he felt his stomach lurching. Though he had no other way of proving it, Peel knew they were descending; realised this was some kind of lift they were in rather than a porch or a room.

Down they went, and down. Deeper and deeper until he thought they were never going to stop. When they eventually did, the doors in front still didn’t open. Instead, a blue light replaced the white one, which scanned them both from top to bottom.

When it was done, a more normal light returned and a different voice—a woman’s voice—said: “Please place all weaponry in the opening provided.”

Peel looked about him, but couldn’t see anything. Then a flap dropped to his right, which looked like it should lead to a laundry chute. Pat placed her knife in there, the only weapon she was carrying, then waited for Peel to put his axe inside. Sighing, he did so reluctantly, and folded his arms—waiting with her.

“All weaponry!” the voice clarified, and it was then he knew the scan had been some kind of X-ray. Peel fished about under his coat, taking out a couple of pistols, then produced a series of his own knives from about his person—including one strapped to his calf. He put each one in turn into the hole.

“Cleared,” said the voice.

It was only now that the other set of doors in front of them opened up into a sealed off corridor. At the far end Peel saw what looked like two cannons mounted on the wall, which followed their progress as they walked down towards yet another set of doors: one in front and one off to the side.

“Don’t take any chances, do they?” said Peel.

“I’m sorry,” replied his companion in an apologetic tone.

“No need. I like that. You let your guard down, take your eye off things for even a moment ... And, well, you’re inclined to lose it.” He reached up to tap his eye-patch and the cannon on his side shifted position, locking on with a cocking sound.

“No sudden movements please,” the female voice warned.

“You could have told me that before,” Peel shouted up to her.

When they reached the end of the corridor, the door slid open on Peel’s side. “You need to go through there now,” she told him. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Why, what’s going to happen to me?” asked Peel, but already she’d stepped through the door which had opened in front and closed almost immediately behind her. He shrugged. “In for a penny ...”

After he stepped through his own doorway Peel was greeted by yet more guns, this time wielded by two burly men in uniform. “Howdy,” he said, nodding to each in turn, but they said nothing back. With his rifle, one of the soldiers motioned for Peel to start walking and he was taken to a small room then told to strip. “Hey now, come on. Leave a guy with some dignity, yeah?”

The soldier’s answer to that was to raise his rifle slightly and repeat the ‘request’. Sighing, Peel began to undress, starting with his hat. “Aren’t you two even going to turn your backs for Heaven’s sake?” They didn’t, but one held out a clear plastic bag for him to put his clothes into.

When he was completely naked—they insisted he had to take everything off, including his boxers and even his eye-patch—he stood there covering his modesty with his hands, shivering, and both of them left, the door closing behind them. Seconds later he felt a drop of water from above. Peel looked up, saw another. Then another. A shower cranked up then, the water it sprayed him with freezing cold. He shuddered, but once he’d gotten over the initial shock actually started to enjoy the sensation; the liquid running down him, dripping off him. Peel couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had a shower. Probably in some flea-bitten hotel somewhere while he’d been chasing down yet another flea-bitten hound.

Nowadays, if you even had water you preserved it. You lived off it. Although perhaps it was recycled here? It was quite a set-up after all.

The water stopped abruptly then, interrupting his thoughts, and in its place air was now blowing into the room. It was like a giant hand-drier they used to have in public toilets, and in seconds he was no longer wet at all.

More doors opened up, on a larger room in front of him. A woman was standing in the middle. She was quite striking, her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and she was wearing a white coat. On the table next to her were various medical instruments, some of which looked more like torture devices. Peel’s hands instinctively covered himself up again.

She gave a small laugh. “I assure you, there’s nothing down there I haven’t seen before, Mr ...”

He could feel his cheeks burning red. “P-Peel,” he told her. “Just Peel.”

“I’m Dr Kingsley. Now, it probably doesn’t need saying, but there are guards just outside who’d be in here like a shot if you caused me any trouble. But you don’t look the type to me.” She grinned, then said: “So, come along now, Mr ... Come along, Peel, don’t be shy. Let’s have a good look at you, shall we?” And that’s exactly what she did. During the course of the next hour or more, there wasn’t an inch of him she hadn’t had a ‘good look at’ by the time she was finished. He hadn’t been poked and prodded like that since his medical to get into the police force.

“How did this happen?” Dr Kingsley asked at last, pointing to the empty socket where his right eye had once been.

“How do you think? Fighting one of those fu ... those mutts out there.”

“It took the eye out?”

Peel shook his head; he knew what she was driving at. If the wolf had clawed out his eye, it could well have infected him with the virus that had turned all the others. “Evasive manoeuvres,” was all he’d say.

She nodded. “Well, I’m pleased to inform you you’re in pretty good nick, Peel, all things considered. Almost finished now—we just need to get your bloods done. Make doubly sure there isn’t anything nasty lurking.” Dr Kingsley took out a needle.

“There isn’t,” he assured her. “And I gave at the office.”

She chuckled, then cocked her head. “You’re not frightened of a little needle, are you? Big boy like you?” Sighing, he held out his arm and looked away, pulling a face as the point went in.

“There’s a good chap ... Okay, we’re all set. You can pop these on now, and someone’ll be along in a minute to take it from there.”

He was handed what looked like a prisoner’s outfit, grey tracksuit top and bottoms. “When do I get my own clothes back?” Peel asked.

“In due course.”

“And my ...” He tapped his eye socket. “Sentimental value.”

Kingsley nodded. “I’ll see to it. Promise.” She patted him on the arm, and the next thing he knew she was gone—taking all her equipment with her. As Peel got dressed, two chairs were brought in and placed on either side of the table. Then a man with a military haircut entered. He was dressed all in black, wore octagonal glasses and held a clipboard in one hand—the other he held out for Peel to sit down. Then he put that same hand in his pocket and took out the missing eye-patch, tossing it onto the table.

“Compliments of the good doctor,” he told Peel.

What followed over the next few hours was a grilling the likes of which he had never experienced, not even after the incident at the motel. Question after question ... most of which he simply refused to answer (what the fuck did his childhood have to do with anything?). It went on for so long, he began to regret what he’d said to Pat about caution. These people took it to an art form!

Just when he thought it wouldn’t end, and was beginning to get ann-oyed, especially with the interviewer’s attitude (“Look mate, I haven’t done a thing wrong—apart from stopping one of your people becoming a hot meal!”) it was suddenly over and he was shown to a room with a bunk and a metal toilet in it. That did little to combat the whole prisoner thing, especially when the door was locked behind him again.

With nothing else to do, Peel lay back on the bed, arm behind his head. He didn’t think he’d drop off, but hadn’t realised quite how exhausted he was. Pat had been right after all, he did need sleep—and in somewhere he knew wouldn’t be attacked anytime soon.