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one of the fleeing mob - a young girl, no more than fifteen, bowling her over
and over until she came to a stop in a bloody heap of pulped flesh and bone.
The .45 slipped from Loader's fingers as he fell. He dropped to his knees,
slumped forward. Somehow he managed to roll over on to his back, a mammoth
effort. Numbness rather than pain. He could not understand it. He'd beaten
them. They were running, scattering, yelling their curses back as they fled.
And yet ...
Loader tried to raise his head; it was impossible. He could not move. He did
not need to. He could see it all from where he lay. A rifle barrel still
protruded through the slit hi the box on the upper platform, the barrel
smoking. It was where Barraclough was stationed.
You fucker! Loader couldn't speak. He was choking, drowning in his own blood.
And nobody came out to him.
Tyler and his colleagues laboured tirelessly inside Section Eight. The
labourers sweated beneath their heavy protective clothing, in a scene like the
bizarre setting for some science-fiction film.
Tyler glanced continually from his watch to the pressure gauge. Both seemed to
stand still. It was mental torture. It would be several hours before they
knew, one way or the other. The solidifiers needed a full twelve hours' trial
to prove or disprove their worth. Any impatient attempt to open them up to
ascertain their current efficiency might result in a total breakdown, which
could not be rectified in time.
All they could do was wait.
Chapter 17
Canverdale's broadcast from Scotland - on radio only - was a bit of a
non-event. By now the British people were resigned to their fate. The threat
of a third world war, horrific in all its aspects, did not cause undue
sensation. By then the holocaust would have exploded with full force. As for
the Russian airliners, supposedly attempting to carry out a rescue operation
on the morrow - most of the population would be hiding hi every conceivable
place of shelter. The airports would be deserted.
Canverdale did not mention the current attempts to solidify the escaping
radioactivity. This was no time to raise a nation's hopes, and then possibly
dash them a few hours later.
The worst of the rioting had subsided. No longer did crowds surge through city
streets bent on blind destruction. There was still some fighting, of course,
but mostly amongst groups competing for places which might conceivably offer
some protection. All official nuclear shelters were already filled - the
living awaiting the end in their mass graves.
London's Undergrounds were crowded. All trains had ceased to run, and the
electric currents had been switched off. The ventilation shafts had not yet
been closed; the authorities would leave that until the very last moment. To
do so now would certainly condemn many to death by suffocation.
And in the valley itself there was an uneasy calm. Those who had attempted to
demonstrate outside the nuclear station had now retreated dejectedly to their
homes to await the end. The sudden burst of gunfire had shocked them into
reality again. Fourteen dead: nine killed by the gunfire, five trampled in the
stampede to get away from it all. Many others injured.
Chief Superintendent Rollason sat at his desk, an ashtray heaped with
cigarette ends in front of him, another of his favourite brand smouldering
between his lips. Occasionally he was forced to remove it during a bout of
coughing. He had had that cough for years; lately it had become much worse. He
wondered why he had never given so much as a passing thought to cancer before,
but did so now. Perhaps because he realised that now millions would probably
die from the disease. Ironic! He wished somebody would phone him. Anybody. It
was the quietest night he had known for years. He wished to God that one of
his men would bring in a drunk, just to relieve the monotony. Every officer
was out in the town on some duty or other. But there were no reports. Nothing.
Fear had turned into boredom, and that in turn brought a new kind of terror -
just waiting for the end.
Dyne's headache did not lessen any, in spite of the darkness and the
tranquillity of his private quarters. Rather it increased to alarming
proportions, the pounding seemed to reverberate right down to his chest. This
frightened him; his father had died from a sudden angina attack. Experts said
that heart trouble was hereditary. Alone here in the dark he experienced a
trapped feeling, a need for the company of the others - something he had never
felt before. Maybe he should go down to the compound below, and get some fresh
air.
He had difficulty in walking, staggering from side to side to the deserted
corridor. He could barely see, his vision tunnelled, everywhere dark as though
with the approach of dusk. But that was ridiculous - the centre was always
fully lit, night and day.
He finally located the elevator and experienced dizziness as it plunged
downwards, coming to a gentle halt which threw him from one wall to the other.
Christ, his eyes hurt. Nobody about, either, not even a guard on the main
doors. Probably everybody was congregated around Section Eight, the focal
point of the whole world at this very moment.
The wind met him with an icy gust as he pushed his way out through the
swing-doors. He shivered; he should have brought a top coat, but he wasn't
going back inside. Jesus, no. Out here he felt a kind of freedom, an urge to
run blindly, to put as much distance between himself and Craiglowrie as
possible. But no, he had to remain - go up with the rest of them if the
reactor exploded. Maybe ten minutes out here would do the trick. Already his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
