Читать книгу Deep RED - Paul Kane - Страница 9

P r o l o g u e

It wasn’t wise to be out here on your own.

Not in the daytime, let alone this close to nightfall. But the trip had taken longer than expected, in spite of the fact nobody knew this landscape better. This Godforsaken land, with its husks of buildings, craters in the roads and jagged bits of metal sticking up out of the ground like uneven teeth. Like their teeth.

This world had become a warped reflection of them, in fact—as monstrous as the things that had taken over. It was hard to remember what life was like before, to be honest; especially for someone like Pat. Vague recollections, images mostly—of playing with a puppy out in the garden as the sun shone down. Of being given a chain with a cross on it by Mum that was still worn today. Of being lifted by two strong hands, planted on Dad’s knee as he read a story out loud; a favourite fairy tale, one that could never, ever be true.

Or could it?

In any event, Pat had felt safe while the story was being read—knowing it was only a fable. And anyway Dad was there, he would never let anything happen. He was the one who checked under the bed, in the closet for monsters. Except, when the real monsters came along, there was nobody who could save them—nowhere that was safe. Pat had been very little when they took control, multiplying like rabbits. The authorities had tried to combat them, but stood very little chance. The war that followed hadn’t lasted long, but the aftermath certainly did. The human race had barely survived it—barely survived their own solution to the problem, either, which hadn’t really proved a solution at all. Had killed as many of their own kind as it did the mutts.

The monsters had survived. The monsters had thrived ... Leaving pockets of humanity, of resistance to fight back the best way they knew how. Most of them gravitating towards this region. It had been a long time since Pat had felt safe, a long time since Dad’s knee, since the story. He was long gone, same as Mum and the rest of the family. This was the only world Pat had ever really known, this scene as familiar as it possibly could be. Scavenging out here had done that, before Pat had been found—been taken in. Been set to work, scouting, delivering messages ... Pat could go unseen, pretty much—not draw attention like a squad of soldiers. Slip between buildings, journey through this wasteland like a duck sails through ... used to sail through water.

No ducks now. Very little water.

That was the idea, anyway. That was how it usually worked. And at only seventeen, some might argue Pat was still too young to be out here—out here alone—but at least there was a purpose to it now. Not just looking for the next crust of edible bread, the next can of cold beans, but making a difference; keeping the hopes of their people alive, and doing as much damage to those bastard hounds as possible in the process. Pat was a vital part of the resistance’s efforts, a cog in a larger machine—but a necessary one. Take this mission, for example: to deliver important intel about stuff like the enemy’s movements, about co-ordinated attacks. Pat didn’t know the ins and outs of what it said, nor what might be done with it—that was all on a need to know basis. On coded sheets of paper in the messenger bag, along with a few essential supplies: a bottle of whisky for Colonel Alkins of Outpost 7B for one, a token of gratitude for her help with that skirmish on the border a couple of weeks ago. Now, that woman was a force to be reckoned with and no mistake—a proper battleaxe. You couldn’t let the fact that she was pushing sixty fool you; at the opposite end of the scale. Alkins had killed more monsters than Pat had had hot dinners ... or cold ones, come to that. What she wanted with that foul liquid, though, was anyone’s guess. Pat had tried it once in the barracks, been given a sip by a trooper called Willis: “Here lad, knock it back. That’ll put hairs on your chest!” It had burned all the way down, making Pat’s eyes water. Willis had laughed at the shiver as it did and the coughing afterwards, slapping Pat on the back (though whether that was out of affection or he was just trying to stop the choking, Pat still didn’t know).

The information couldn’t be broadcast over the airwaves, in case the monsters were listening in—oh, they were clever ones, these. Not your average braindead savages. If they had been, maybe people would have stood more of a chance? Wasn’t to say they weren’t savage; they were that all right. Pat had witnessed enough bloodletting by those things to fill a thousand nightmares ... not that people slept much these days, and not for more than a few hours at a time, if they were lucky. Pat definitely wouldn’t be sleeping tonight, not even in the relative shelter of 7B. Too wired, too hopped up on adrenalin.

The trip back would be simpler, hopefully. Only reason it had taken so long on the way here was that feeling ... The feeling of being watched, being followed; you learnt to rely on those kinds of senses out here. Didn’t matter how careful you were, though, how much you covered your tracks—and remember, those bloody things were the ultimate trackers!—you could still find yourself in trouble. Find yourself being stalked.

Find yourself dead.

Hadn’t been that far into this city either, when Pat first started to notice it. Movement out of the corner of the eye, but then nothing there when you looked. The fingering of that chain around the neck, something Pat did unconsciously whenever the nerves kicked in; an overwhelming urge to run, regardless of the fact that would be the worst thing to do. You panicked, you made mistakes. Better to keep cool and just fade into the background if you could. Losing the shadows would be better, of course.

Which is what Pat had been trying to do, either throw off the tail or lead them a merry dance away from 7B. Away from anywhere. Until you knew you were on your own again ... Not a good idea to be on your own, but an even worse one to have the wrong sort of company. Pat would rather spend a lifetime alone than face that.

The claws, the teeth, the blood ... So much blood. So much ... red.

More memories, flashes of things that had happened to Mum and Dad. Pat fought them down, needed to concentrate on shaking off whoever ... whatever was following. In one building, through and out into the next. Turn once, twice, double back and go down a different alleyway.

It took a while, but finally Pat was satisfied the tail was gone. Then, and only then, was it okay to carry on with the mission. But, of course, by that time what there was left of the sun—watery and weak in a muddied sky—was low on the horizon. It would be night soon. Pat considered the options: hole up and wait until morning to continue; or put on a spurt and get to 7B, spend the night there. The latter was clearly the most attractive choice by miles, but was it the most sensible?

Sensible or not, that’s the one Pat plumped for: plotting the alternate route from there before following it; pulling the hood up over close-cropped, spiky hair, head down and onwards. Once or twice, there was that feeling again; not quite enough to double back or even turn back, abort the mission completely. More that it drove Pat on to reach 7B regardless, to reach sanctuary. At least there were people skilled in the art of warfare billeted in that place. Pat knew the basics, was okay in a scrap, but wasn’t a natural born fighter. A handgun and a knife were the only weapons brought on these runs—anything else would simply slow things down. Rifles slung over the shoulder, rocket-launchers? They just got in the way ... ’Course, whether Pat felt the same way when confronted by those mutts was another matter: a pistol and a knife wouldn’t be much use in a stand up fight. That was one scenario where running might actually be better; when the fight or flight instinct told you that if you didn’t make a break for it, you’d be killed on the spot.

Not today. It wouldn’t come to that today.

The enemy had been avoided, fooled even, and Pat was almost at the target destination. Hidden in what had once been the foyer of a museum, which Pat couldn’t help thinking now stood only as a testament to what had happened—exhibits destroyed, paintings blackened by fire—was the entranceway to the outpost: a set of wooden double-doors, also ravaged by flames, almost hanging off their hinges. Behind these, Pat found a second set of metal doors, the real doors, which would have taken quite a lot of explosives to force open. It was on this that Pat knocked—the staccato rap that was a secret entreaty to be let in. But that was still only the first of several steps which would gain a visitor entrance.

“Identify!” wafted a gruff voice through the door. The speaker sounded as if he was on a different planet, not a few feet away.

“P 15022012,” came the reply. The code for Pat’s name and a birthdate; a means of telling who the caller was. It was unique for every messenger, couldn’t be copied. It was possible, of course, for that code to be tortured out of someone, but that was why there were yet more checks to undergo before Pat was allowed inside 7B proper.

There was the sound of locks being turned, of bolts being drawn back. Then suddenly one of the metal doors opened up. Pat could see a faint, flickering light in there, enough to illuminate the steps in front. Steps leading down to the checking in point, below ground; but not to the outpost itself, which was even deeper. That was where most of the human race lived these days, under the earth. The barrel of an automatic rifle was almost immediately jammed in Pat’s face.

“Whoa, easy there!” Pat’s hands were already raised, there was no need for that. Or maybe there was. It was this level of security that kept outposts like 7B free of any kind of infection. Free of infiltration.

“Move inside,” the man with the gruff voice ordered—and now Pat could see he was a guy wearing a beanie and fatigues. His nose was bent, broken at some point in the past, and there were stitches over his left eye; thick and black, like laces in a boot. Pat had to wonder whether the wound had healed a while ago and the man simply liked the way this looked. It would certainly make any human think twice about tackling him ... maybe even one of the beasts as well. “Slowly,” warned the man.

“’Kay, just watch what you’re doing with that cannon. We’re all on the same side here,” said Pat. Though, of course, that was yet to be proven. To this guard, Pat might be just another one of those things.

Inside the door was another guard—standard practice, in case the first one should fall. This guy was a little younger, but no less rough-looking: the stubbled chin only adding to this. Pat had seen them both around before, just not to talk to—unlike Alkins—and not on guard duty. This man said nothing, just closed the door again, and covered the first guard while he searched Pat, taking away the gun and knife. Wouldn’t be needed here in 7B. Not when they were deeper in, anyway. He took the bag as well, then motioned for Pat to remove the hood.

“Down the steps,” said the first guard, pointing the way with the gun, past the torches on the walls. They left the second man by the door, as Pat was escorted to the final checking area. The one with the mirrors.

It was still the most effective weapon they had, the most useful tool—and something that not even the dogs with all their wit had been able to overcome. As old-fashioned as it was, this method remained the only sure-fire way to wheedle them out. Pat was virtually shoved into the arena, lit by more torches on the walls, and ordered to face first the reflective surface on the right, then turn to the one on the left.

The guard behind nodded, as a newcomer entered. A familiar face, lined with wisdom and expression, framed with silver hair. She was accompanied by two more guards, one on either side who’d escorted her from below. “Now, now,” the woman said, pointing to the gun the broken-nosed guard held raised. “There’s no need for all that.”

“Colonel Alkins,” said Pat, saluting. The colonel threw one back at the messenger, taking the bag that was handed to her and rooting around inside.

“Any trouble?” asked the woman.

It was better to be honest, as the colonel was like a human lie-detector, and Pat had been late reaching the outpost. “I ... er ... I thought I was being followed at one point, but managed to shake them off.”

The colonel paused, one eye narrowing, scrutinising Pat. “You’re sure about that, are you? That you lost the tail?”

Pat thought again about the uneasy feeling, hand going to the chain. “Yes ... yes, I’m sure.”

Alkins nodded. “Good. Because we don’t want any nasty surprises, do we?”

“No ma’am,” answered Pat.

“All right then ... ah!” At first Pat thought the colonel had come across the whisky; that always brought a smile to her face. Instead, it was the plastic folder she took out—dropping the bag down on the floor. Pat heard a smashing sound, the whisky bottle breaking inside the bag. Hadn’t she seen it in there?

“Colonel, there was—” Pat began, but was cut off by the raising of a hand.

Alkins was frowning as she rifled through the papers. “The code to these,” she said, then waited.

What? Pat didn’t have it, that wasn’t her mission. It would come via another messenger; the colonel knew that but—

Pat was beginning to get that same sinking feeling. Began fingering the chain more furiously. Everyone was staying well away from the mirrors, had done even when Pat was being checked over. But it would only take a step to the left or the right to get a side on view.

Yet to be proven we’re on the same side... .

“Well?” There was something strange about the colonel’s expression now, those eyes a little too wide. The mouth a little too big. Pat turned and looked at the scarred soldier barring the way, who glared back, unblinking.

How many?

No nasty surprises.

Pat shuffled to the side, trying to do so as subtly as possible. Not making a very good job of it. “I ... I don’t—”

“Oh come along!” snapped Alkins, “we haven’t got all day, boy!”

That was when Pat knew for sure. Not when the image in the mirror showed something else looking back that wasn’t the colonel—a warped reflection ... same as the guards on either side of her—but then: when the woman spoke a final time.

And those words from the story, the fable Pat’s dad used to read, came drifting back: What big eyes, what big ears ... What big teeth ...

All the better to eat you with!

Not today. Not today ... Fight or flight? Pat had to decide.

Why not a little of both?

No weapons, they’d been taken from Pat, but there was still the chain. A chain being fingered, being undone. A chain with a sharpened cross; a silver chain that was being unfurled and whipped around in the direction of the three people in front of Pat.

It swiped across the first soldier’s throat, opening that up; then the colonel’s face, drawing a line across both cheeks and the nose; before blinding the third guard, streaking across both eyes. All of them reached up to claw at their respective wounds. Injuries they hadn’t been expecting, let alone been quick enough to prevent.

Then there was the torch. Pat reached up and flicked the naked flame off the wall, in the direction of the bag, where it met the leaking whisky with a whoosh.

Pat turned. There hadn’t been time to check whether the scarred man was one of their kind as well, but it was a fair assumption and Pat couldn’t take the risk. Didn’t think twice. The chain was up and out once more, catching the guard across the hands and forcing him to drop his rifle. Didn’t mean anything—might just have been the sharpness of the cross. But when Pat lashed out again, and the man caught it—grabbing the chain with both hands—smoke started to rise from his palms. Pat had no choice but to let go, yet at the same time reached for the knife tucked into his belt: the one he’d taken from Pat, sticking out handle first. In seconds that was free and being plunged into the guard’s chest. He fell, a look of surprise on a face that was in mid-transformation. With a satisfied grunt, Pat snatched the chain back—but there was no time to grab the pistol he’d also taken.

Because the figures at the back were rising, pushing through the flames, and they were being joined by more from below. Not just the colonel then, not just these men, but the entire outpost had been compromised—which was another assumption, but one Pat had wanted to deny until now. It meant one more base was gone, had fallen to them. It meant Colonel Alkins was dead, as well. No time for sadness, though, no time to mourn her ...

Now was the time for the ‘flight’ part of the plan.

Pat began back up the stairs, had almost forgotten about the other guard there with the stubble until he was coming down the stairs the other way, snarling. Timing it just right, Pat crouched and the man tripped, going straight over and falling headlong down the rest of the steps. Not only did that leave the way clear for Pat to open the door, it would also hinder the enemy in hot pursuit; literally, as a glance back told Pat that a couple were on fire. Now Pat was extremely grateful for the alcohol, gave a silent thanks that it had been Alkins’ favourite tipple.

Locks were undone, the door open again, and Pat virtually fell out into the museum. Legs working, time for flight. Don’t look back, don’t look back ... But Pat couldn’t help it; couldn’t help casting a glance over the shoulder to see them emerging from the doorway. One, two, three—more. And Alkins changing as she did so, a streak of silver all that was left of her hair colour, marking her out as different from the rest of the pack.

Pat sprinted into the street, looking left and right, looking for a way out of this. Somewhere to hide maybe? Although now they had the scent, they’d simply track that—unless Pat could mask it somehow? But no, better to try and lose them in this maze, fool them into going one way when you were going another. Put enough distance between them that scent wasn’t an issue. A long shot, sure, especially with their noses, but better than admitting defeat. Better than admitting ...

That you were dead.

That you had been ever since you set foot in the outpost, as dead as everyone else inside that place. Pat was being watched, being stalked. Being hunted. Could sense it, could feel it. And that hunt could only ever end in death.

Left, right, up one alley, down another. Might be able to lose them, might be able to ... Then Pat realised what had actually been happening; instead of leading them away and confusing them, they’d actually been the ones doing the leading. Doing the herding. Blocking off one route, forcing Pat into another until—

It opened out in front, a large space, much larger than the checking one. Like those gladiatorial arenas of old, illuminated by a full moon that had just poked its nose out from behind a cloud. Pat skidded into the middle, and immediately tried to backtrack—but it was already too late. They were everywhere, forming a circle around Pat; dozens of them now, probably all the ones that had been in 7B waiting. No hiding in closets or under beds; the monsters were out in the open here. All changed, no need for subterfuge. All fur and teeth and red eyes. As red as the blood they were eager to shed.

Not today. Not today ... But yes, it would seem: today. The time had come. No more flight, but Pat wasn’t going down without more fighting—no matter how hopeless the odds were.

Knife in one hand, chain in the other.

Then ... something happened. A flash, moonlight glinting off something. And one of the mutt’s heads rolled towards Pat’s feet. There was growling, as the rest of the pack reacted to this. But there it was again, flashing metal. Flashing silver, catching the moon; a swish here, a swish there. Whatever ... whoever this was, they were fast—maybe even faster than the beasts. Definitely faster than them, because they were falling, dropping like flies. Claws were flashing as well, but not nearly enough; legs and arms were flying all over the place.

Blood was spraying everywhere as well, the figure moving from one to another, ducking and rising, the blade a positive blur. Pat watched, open-mouthed, until there was only one monster left. The one with the silver streak in its fur, the one who had pretended to be Colonel Alkins. It was clutching the papers in its paw, scrunched up now but still readable. It looked for a second as if it would attack—take revenge on this person who’d killed all of its troops. But then it seemed to remember what it was holding, the possibility of decoding whatever was in them.

And it ran, bounding off into the distance. Into the blackness.

Leaving only Pat there. Pat and the man. His shoulders were rising and falling, just as he had been a moment before. He looked over to where ‘Alkins’ had vanished, perhaps thinking about going after her, but instead turned and faced the person he’d saved, a little out of breath. It was only now that Pat saw what the weapon had been: it was a perfectly polished silver axe (battleaxe vs battleaxe, if Alkins had stayed) which even now he was cleaning, wiping off the grue. It was as beautiful as it was deadly, that weapon, and for a moment it was all Pat could see. Then the rest of the man came into focus.

He was wearing dark cargo trousers and boots, his long coat coming down past his knees, over a jumper that had holes in it. He was bearded, and—like the Alkins creature—that was also shot through with silver-grey. There was a patch covering his right eye, long hair poking out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The figure took a step towards Pat, who involuntarily raised the chain and knife. Just because a person was human—and that was yet to be established here; Pat had been fooled once that day—didn’t mean your intentions were good. Especially if you were out here alone, when you really shouldn’t be.

“Relax,” said the man, lifting the axe and resting it on his left shoulder, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Pat said nothing in reply.

“They got there way ahead of you. Saw ’em skirt round you, while you were trying to throw them off the first time.”

Saw...? Then they hadn’t been the only hunters out there observing Pat; this man had been responsible for at least some of those feelings. That sense of being followed.

“What’s your name?”

Pat still said nothing.

The man laughed. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

“P-Pat ... It’s Pat.”

“That short for Patricia, then?”

Pat frowned. How had he known that? Alkins had, she’d confided in her, but no-one else here. It had been the final reason Pat had suspected her doppelganger.

“We haven’t got all day, boy!”

“Because it sure as hell ain’t Patrick.”

He drew closer, bending, holding out his free hand. Pat tucked the chain in her pocket, reluctantly accepting the shake. Then she looked around again at the devastation; at so many dead hounds. “How ... how did you...?”

“Practice,” replied the man. “Been doing this a long time. Probably even before you were born, girl. Getting a bit slow in my old age, actually.”

Her face soured and she let go of his hand. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? Girl?” She nodded. “Okay, before you were born, Pat.”

The mention of her own name reminded her that she still didn’t have his. “I told you mine ...” she prompted.

“Eh? Oh, right.” He laughed again. “It’s Peel,” he told her. Then he turned his back on Pat, began to walk off. She watched him, gaping, and suddenly blurted out:

“Wait!”

He stopped, looked over his shoulder—and waited. Pat just stood there staring at him. The stranger sighed then, and said, “Yes?”

“Where ... where are you going?”

He grinned at that and pointed in the direction the Alkins beast had fled. “Goin’ hunting,” was the answer, and he turned back around again and carried on.

“Wait!” Pat repeated and rushed to catch him up, to fall in step with him. He glanced across, but said nothing. “Who are you?” she asked again, not wanting his name this time; wanting the rest.

“It’s a long story,” he told her.

“Tell me,” she said as she hurried to keep up with his strides.

As this man who’d saved her, who she’d only just met, led her away from the field of conflict. From the slaughter. From the pools of blood that looked almost black in the light from the moon.

But were in fact red. A deep, deep shade of red ...