The Drift, page 28
Face those demons. All that shit.
Yeah, it really was shit.
Forcing down his trepidation, Carter stepped inside.
Meg
Sean walked ahead. Meg followed. She had let him take his gun back. She kept hers in her hand. They didn’t know for sure that there wasn’t a killer hiding out here. And they still didn’t fully trust each other. Who are you trying to save? But he was all she had.
Sean pushed open an emergency exit door and they emerged back out into the freezing cold. It hadn’t felt exactly toasty inside, but Meg had forgotten just how bitter that wind was up here on the mountainside. It grappled with them, snatching breath, clawing and tugging at their snowsuit-clad bodies as if trying to fling them from the mountain’s rocky face.
Meg found herself wishing for diver’s boots, weighted with concrete, to keep her planted firmly on the ground. She bowed her head, keeping close behind Sean, using him as a human shield as they rounded the corner.
Here, the wind abated, its fury muted by the grey hulk of the station building. Meg raised her head and saw that Sean had been telling the truth about one thing. A dirty red-and-blue snowmobile, a number ‘1’ stencilled on the engine, squatted outside a small building with a sign that read Maintenance. They walked towards it.
‘It’s got petrol in it,’ Sean said.
‘How d’you know?’
‘I checked.’
‘So why are you still here?’
‘Spot the problem.’
And Meg suddenly did. ‘No ignition key.’
She glanced towards the maintenance shed. ‘Have you searched inside?’
‘No. I thought I’d go and have a beer and wait for a woman to come and suggest something obvious.’
‘That’s what men usually do.’ Meg smiled sweetly at him. ‘Couldn’t hurt to look again though.’
She shoved the door open and stepped through.
The ‘maintenance’ shed was obviously a dumping ground for a lot of crap. Meg could see straight away what had become of snowmobiles 2 and 3. They had been stripped, various parts lying on a large worktable in the centre of the room, along with an assortment of tools. Either someone had been trying to repair them or to use the parts for something else.
Meg stared around. Maintenance uniforms and a couple of dirty ski jackets were hung on the walls, along with more tools. She patted down the pockets of the grubby clothing. Empty. To her right were two tall cupboards. Meg pulled the first open. Inside, two sets of skis and poles.
‘Can you ski?’ she asked Sean.
‘Not well. You?’
‘Pretty rubbish, but I might be able to make it a short distance without falling over.’
‘As long as your destination is downhill.’
‘Yeah. There is that.’ She turned back to the cupboards. Sean propped himself on the other side of the worktable. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’ he said.
‘I thought I had. But I was wrong.’
She reached for the second cupboard and pulled the door open.
‘Before you get your hopes up,’ Sean said. ‘It’s not in there.’
Meg stared inside. Keys hung on labelled pegs: Generator, Storage, Snow 2, Snow 3. The final peg was empty: Snow 1.
Meg stared at it, something niggling in her mind. And then it came back to her. Snow 1. The keyring in her pocket. Of course.
‘I’ve got it,’ she said.
‘What?’
She fumbled excitedly in her pocket. ‘I took a keyring off the dead guy in the control room. I didn’t realize what it was.’
‘You’ve got the snowmobile key?’
‘Yes!’
She turned. Her grin faded. Sean stood, his gun pointed at her chest.
‘I knew you were worth waiting for.’ He nodded at the gun in her hand. ‘Put that down carefully on the worktable.’
Meg hesitated.
His face softened. ‘Please.’
Reluctantly, she laid the gun on the table.
Sean held out his hand. ‘Now give me the key.’
‘You were never going to let me come with you, were you?’ Meg said. ‘It was just a ploy to get me off guard.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘And now you’re going to kill me.’
‘No. You give me the key. I’ll tie you up in here so I can do what I need to. Then I’ll come back.’
‘If you don’t get killed first.’ Meg stared at him in despair. ‘The Professor might already be dead, Sean. Have you thought of that? All of this could be for nothing.’
He nodded. ‘True. But I made a promise to my sister – and I have to keep it. Now give me the key.’
She tried again. ‘Don’t tie me up. I’ll freeze in here. I can’t come after you if you take the snowmobile. Please?’
Sean sighed. ‘I’d like to agree, but you admitted it yourself – you don’t give up. I think you’d still try to stop me.’
Meg stared at him, letting tears fill her eyes. ‘Yeah.’ Her shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘Damn right.’
She kicked out at the worktable. It tipped back, crashing into Sean, knocking him off balance. Her gun flew off the table and hit the floor. Meg grabbed it and bolted for the door, sprinting outside into the freezing air. She glanced to her right. The snowmobile. She ran towards it. A shot rang out behind her and something hit her in the shoulder, spinning her off balance. She fell to the ground, shoulder burning. Shit.
Sean emerged through the door. Ignoring the pain from her shoulder, Meg rolled and fired off a round. Wood splintered near his head.
‘Fuck!’ He ducked back inside.
Meg pushed herself to her feet and half ran, half staggered down the slope towards a thin copse of firs. She crouched behind one of the trees and peered around the trunk. She saw the shed door swing open, Sean using it as a shield.
‘Meg!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t be stupid. We shouldn’t be fighting each other.’
‘Okay!’ she shouted back. ‘Then let me take the snowmobile.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. You let me take it and we might both get out of this alive.’
‘No can do.’
‘Why? You can’t save Sarah, Meg. Even if you could, your daughter is still dead.’
Anger rose in her throat. ‘Fuck you. You think murdering another man will bring your sister back?’
‘No, I think it will bring her justice. He deserves to pay.’
‘And what if other people try to stop you? Are you going to kill them too? How many more have to die, so you can get justice?’
A long silence. Meg clutched her gun, fingers numb with cold. Her shoulder throbbed, blood seeping into her snowsuit. Too much blood. Fuck.
‘Meg,’ Sean said in a softer tone. ‘If you try and make it to the snowmobile, you know I’ll have to shoot you.’
‘Ditto.’
She heard him laugh bitterly. ‘So, this is stalemate.’
‘Guess so.’
A long pause.
‘What are we going to do about that?’
Meg stared at the maintenance shed, then back at the snowmobile.
Only one of them could make it. Or neither.
She made her decision. She stood, edged around the tree, aimed and fired. Twice.
The second bullet hit its target. The snowmobile’s petrol tank exploded in an eardrum-rupturing burst of orange-and-blue flames. The force and heat, even at this distance, sent Meg staggering backwards, shielding her face. She felt her hair crisp. Shards of molten metal nicked her exposed skin. And then, a second eruption blew her off her feet completely.
Gravity snatched her, tipping her down the steep, snowy slope, rolling her faster and faster towards the edge of the mountain. Meg tried to turn and slow herself, digging in her heels, scrabbling for purchase in the snow. Her feet slid off the precipice just as her hands managed to grab at a small outcrop of rock.
Christ. She lay there for a moment, feet dangling in thin air. Then, cautiously, she clawed her way back from the edge. She glanced behind her. A sheer drop, and nothing but sky, the sun slowly sinking behind the mountains. It glinted off the roof of the stranded cable car in the distance. As Meg watched, she thought she saw a speck of darkness fall from the bottom. Sarah?
Meg felt something inside her ache and settle. She turned back. Her gun lay half buried in the snow. She picked it up and pushed herself to her feet. On shaky legs, she stood, braced against the wind, shoulder still throbbing, gun clutched in her hand. Ready.
Sean approached through the shimmering heat haze of the explosion. He looked different, face distorted by the haze, skin blackened by the smoke. He staggered down the slope and stopped a short distance away, panting, gun held loosely at his side.
He stared at her through red-rimmed eyes. ‘Why? Why did you blow up our only chance of escape?’
‘Someone had to stop you – from hurting anyone else.’
‘Why the hell do you care?’
‘Because …’ Meg struggled to find the words, forcing them out against the wind and pain. ‘Because caring is all we have left. If we stop caring – about life, about other people – who are we? What have we become?’
Sean shook his head. ‘I always knew you were one of the good guys … I’ve got to tell you, it’s a major pain in the ass.’
They looked at each other. One intent on death. One on retribution. Perhaps it had always been going to end this way. In blood and bullets.
‘You know you’re going to bleed out if that shoulder doesn’t get attention,’ Sean said.
Meg nodded. ‘And you’re weak and exhausted. You’re going to die of starvation and exposure on this mountainside before you get anywhere near the Retreat.’
‘Guess we’re both fucked then.’
‘Guess so.’
His eyes found hers. ‘I don’t want to kill you, Meg.’
‘I know.’ She raised her gun. ‘I wish I could say the same.’
Sean fired. Once, twice, three times. Meg felt the bullets pierce her body, little eruptions of fire. She smiled. Her feet lifted from the mountainside, and then she was falling. Falling and falling.
A hand caught hers.
She turned. Lily floated beside her. No longer in yellow but a shimmering dress of white snowflakes.
‘It’s okay, Mummy. I’ve got you.’
Meg squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘I know, honey. And I won’t ever let you go again.’
They pulled each other close. The sky rushed by. The world dissolved into white.
Meg buried her face in her daughter’s soft curls.
‘I’m sorry it took me so long,’ she whispered. ‘I just got a little stuck.’
Carter
He walked along the corridor, boots kicking up dust from the cracked and crumbling concrete floor. The waft of stale drains was coming from the toilets. He held his breath as he passed them.
Ahead of him, a faded and cracked sign on the wall read Café and Viewing Deck, with an arrow pointing straight on. A shorter corridor branched off to his right. He turned down it. Along this corridor there were two more doors. A sign on the first read Staff Only, Restricted.
Carter hesitated. The control room. He pushed the door open.
The small area had been trashed. Cables ripped out, wires hanging loose, computer monitors smashed. The bodies still sat in their seats at the control desk. Not that there was much left of them now. Empty eye sockets and lipless mouths gaped. Wisps of hair clung to yellowed skulls and skeletal fingers poked out of green jumpsuits. Ragged holes in the material bore testimony to how they had died, shot twice in the back.
Miles was a brutal and efficient executioner.
After the outbreak, he had trekked up to the station to prevent anyone else from reaching the Retreat. The crew were unaware of the situation. A storm had interrupted communications. Miles had ended them permanently. Then he had sabotaged the cable car that was already on its way, leaving everyone inside to die.
But he had come back a few days later … and saved Carter’s life.
Miles had found him, lying face down in the snow, collapsed from hypothermia and exhaustion, near to death. For some reason, Miles had dragged him back to the Retreat. Why? Carter would never really know. Miles only ever said: ‘You looked like a survivor. Survivors are useful.’
Carter had spent those weeks recovering from frostbite and hypothermia in one of the isolation chambers at the Retreat. Miles had saved his life but, even with his medical knowledge, there was little he could do for Carter’s face.
For a while Carter had worn a surgical mask to cover the worst of his mutilation. Gradually, he began to take it off more often. The others in the Retreat stopped recoiling at the sight of his face. And eventually, so did he.
Carter gave the long-dead crew a final glance then walked out into the corridor. He turned and followed the signs for the café and viewing deck. At the end of the corridor he pushed open the double doors.
The spectacular view was more muted these days, the wall of curved glass coated in layers of grime. Exploded bottles in the defunct fridge lent a ripe, wheaty smell to the air. Carter negotiated his way past the stacked tables and chairs, stepping over a broken beer bottle, and stood in front of the dirty window.
The cable car still hung there. Blood red against the whiteout of the sky. Rusted, battered by the storms … no more than a carcass. But clinging on. Like him. A survivor.
Behind him, a boot crunched on glass.
Slowly, he turned …
‘Returning to the scene of the crime, Sean?’
Carter
She looked just like he remembered her: dark hair tangled, face bloodied but determined. More blood stained her blue snowsuit. In several places there were ragged holes where his bullets had penetrated the fabric.
‘I really didn’t want to kill you.’
Meg shrugged. ‘If it’s any consolation, it was you or me.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And it should have been me, obviously.’
‘You were one of the good guys.’
‘But not a survivor.’
‘You wanted to stop me. I had to find him.’
‘And you have, so what now?’
‘I’m going to kill him.’
‘And then? Where does it end?’
‘When he’s dead.’
She smiled sadly. ‘You keep telling yourself that, Sean.’
And then she was gone, dissolving into dust that drifted down to the floor. Nothing left of her now, except in his mind, where she lived with the others: Peggy, Hannah, Lucas, Anya – and more. There were always more. A lot of blood under the bridge.
After Meg had died, he had considered, for the briefest moment, following her over the precipice. But the survival instinct was too strong, the need to finish what he had started too great. He had come this far. If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, it’s also a one-way street. No going back.
He had staggered back up the mountainside and into the maintenance shed. The cold was already biting through his snowsuit. He knew he would need extra layers if he was to stand a chance of making it. He had grabbed one of one of the grubby ski jackets off the hook and shrugged it on. A name had been sewn into the lapel.
P. Carter.
At some point, after his rescue, Miles had asked what the ‘P’ stood for.
He had smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter. Most people just call me Carter.’
A new name, another new life. But one thing didn’t change. His desire for revenge.
Carter had been patient. Prison had taught him that. He had bided his time, recuperating, regaining his strength, learning to live with what remained of his face. He had found out all he could about the Retreat, tried to make himself useful, to earn Miles’s trust.
And it had worked.
Eventually, Miles had told him the truth about Isolation Chamber 13.
Unlucky for some. But for Carter it held a certain serendipity.
Because Carter had waited thirteen years to kill the man held inside.
And now, it was almost time.
THE DEVIL WAS AN ANGEL ONCE
1
The light was failing by the time Carter reached the Retreat compound, dragging the generator, battery and two gas canisters on the sled behind him.
He was sweating inside his snowsuit and his chest felt tight, probably from the exertion and altitude. He was struggling to catch his breath. His legs trembled as he staggered the last half mile. It didn’t help that the wind was getting up once again, snowflakes swirling around his face. A fresh storm was coming.
As Carter reached the gate, something cracked under his foot. He looked down. The old sign. It had come off its hook and lay half submerged in the snow. Carter crouched down and picked it up:
THE RETREAT
Property of D.R.I.F.T
(Department of Research into Infection and Future Transmission)
Carter stared at the battered sign. Then he drew back his arm and threw it as far away as he could. Man, he hated fucking acronyms.
He trudged up to the door and tapped in the code. It didn’t open. He tried again. The door still wouldn’t budge. He yanked off his gloves with his teeth and tapped the pad once more, in case he had somehow got it wrong. The door remained locked. What the fuck? Carter glared at the pad, like it was deliberately screwing with him. A power problem again? But that usually released the locks. Unless Welland had messed something up, which was a high possibility. In irritation, Carter hammered at the door with his fists.
‘Hey! Welland! Miles! The pad’s bust. Can you let me in?’
He waited. Nothing. The door was thick. Maybe they were both in the basement or in another part of the Retreat. Carter cursed and kicked at the door. Fuck. He stepped back and looked around. He was tired and hungry. He needed to get inside. But the Retreat was secure. No way to break in, or out.
