The Drift, page 4
Sarah looked about to argue then shut her mouth again. She patted the snowsuit down. ‘Empty.’
‘Great.’
She passed the suit back to Meg, who stepped into it gratefully.
‘Okay. Who’s next?’ Meg asked.
Max was already undoing his suit. Sean followed. Sarah rolled her eyes but reached for her zip. They exchanged snowsuits, patting the pockets and shaking them out.
Karl was the last. He looked around as if someone might give him a last-minute reprieve. Then he shook his head and reached reluctantly for his zip. As he eased his snowsuit off, Sarah let out an audible gasp.
Karl’s arms and legs were covered in ugly black tattoos. From the crudeness of the inkwork, Meg would guess they were done in prison: swastikas, skulls, the number 1 4 8 8, the Aryan circle and fist, the words ‘Blood and Honur’. Not an inch of unblemished skin remained below his neck. They all knew what those tattoos meant. Hate-filled symbols of white supremacy.
Karl met Meg’s gaze defiantly, but Meg could see the shame in his eyes. She felt the others looking at her. Of course. She was a black woman. The tattoos should upset her more. Her burden, not theirs.
She smiled thinly at Karl. ‘You know they spelt “honour” wrong.’
He bowed his head. ‘Yeah, I know.’
She nodded. ‘Give me your suit.’
Karl stepped out of his suit and held it out. Meg reached for it.
Something hit the floor of the cable car with a clunk.
A small, bloodstained knife.
Carter
He stood at the top of the run, just outside the boundary to the Retreat. The old sign – the one no one used any more – clanked and swung on its hook.
Carter checked again that he had everything, and steeled himself. It took about twenty minutes to make it down to the village on a good day, if you were a good skier. He was not a good skier and today – judging from the gathering clouds, the wind and the snow swirling about his goggles – was not a good day.
And then there were the woods. There was no avoiding them. About halfway down, row upon row of tall pines closed in on either side. Dense, sinister. Full of things that watched and whispered … and whistled.
Carter hated woods and forests. Always had. He blamed his dad. When Carter was a kid, his dad had told him this story about some kids he once knew who had found the body of a girl in the woods. She had been dismembered. Limbs hidden under piles of leaves. They caught the dude who killed her, but never found her head.
Carter wasn’t sure if it was true or not. His dad had talked a lot of shit, especially when he was drunk. But that story had stuck. Carter would wake from nightmares about the dead girl, her missing head crawling towards him like some kind of mutant human spider. Dr Moreau’s worst nightmare. Nothing good ever happened in dark, dark woods. He should know.
Carter adjusted his ski goggles and took a deep breath. Fuck it. He pushed off with his poles. Not elegantly, not fast. Like a kid on the learner slopes. He hated that feeling of losing control, of being taken by gravity and the slippery, crystallized ice. Give him a car or even a bike. Anything but two slabs of wood and some fucking sticks.
He imagined Caren watching from the huge plate-glass window, smirking at his shaky, unsure progress. He caught Caren watching him a lot. He didn’t harbour any crazy idea that this was because she had some secret crush on him. Not unless she had a thing for the grotesque. It was more like she could see through him. Like he was as naked to her as the emperor in his shiny new clothes.
Carter tried to shove thoughts of Caren with a C from his mind and concentrate on not breaking his neck. Sweat broke out and cooled on his back. The wind whipped snow into his face and he had to keep risking his balance to raise an arm and wipe his goggles clear again. The weight of the black sky bore down on him. He needed to be quick today. He couldn’t risk getting caught in the storm.
He reached a plateau in the slope and managed to swerve to a halt. Below, the run narrowed, the tall pines leaning in closer. He tried to quell his unease, then pushed off again as fast as he dared, keeping his eyes trained straight ahead, away from the woods’ shadowy folds. It was still early but the storm was already ushering in a premature twilight. The trek back up would be the dangerous part.
Ahead, he could see the slope widening, flattening, and his breath started to come a little easier. To his right, the rusted remains of an old ski lift drew into view. Once, it had ferried people to the top of the slopes. Now, half of it had collapsed, chairs buried in the snow, like some great beast slayed and brought to earth.
Carter coasted past the wreckage, down into the village. Not a big village, but in its hey-day it must have been bustling. Allegedly, there used to be a chic boutique hotel, a couple of smart bars and restaurants, a chemist’s and one small supermarket – Quinn’s Convenience Store. Just enough to serve the skiers who holidayed here.
But no one had taken holidays for a long time. The boutique hotel was now a boarded-up, graffitied shack. The restaurants and bars were similarly derelict. The chemist’s had struggled on for a while, but eventually it couldn’t get the drugs, and then it was looted, so that went too. Which just left Quinn’s.
Carter suspected that, in the event of a nuclear apocalypse, the only things left would be cockroaches and Jimmy Quinn.
He took off his skis and walked along the main road, catching a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye: a fleeing deer. He tensed in case any predators followed – cougar or wild dogs. But the high street remained empty. Carter relaxed, a little.
Quinn’s was halfway along. The storefront was dirty, the windows were barred; barbed wire decorated the roof. Multiple security cameras swivelled in Carter’s direction as he approached. However, when he pushed open the door, it still jangled with an old-fashioned bell.
Inside, the store was dimly lit and dusty and always smelt of fish and something sour. The shelves were stocked high with tinned goods from various continents, and two massive refrigerators housed hunks of meat of dubious origin. Carter had never summoned up the courage to ask what they were, lest he find himself joining them.
The rest of the shop was given over to a bizarre and eclectic selection of items which never seemed to change. Carter walked past a display of Easter eggs, women’s twenty-denier tights, inflatable pool floats, cocktail shakers and packs of video cassettes. Not even DVDs – video cassettes. And Betamax at that. Carter wondered if, back in the day, the store had been smarter, stocked with fine wines and fresh delicacies. Or maybe not.
Quinn had stock flown in once a month via the small airfield an hour’s drive out of the village. He also had two of his four sons stationed there, so nothing came in or went out of the village without Jimmy Quinn’s approval. Including people. The Retreat and Quinn had formed an uneasy alliance. Carter doubted it was possible to have any other sort of alliance with Jimmy Quinn.
Miles had once told Carter that Quinn’s family used to run a large crime syndicate in the UK and Quinn still had connections with organized crime. Carter was willing to believe it. Although how Quinn had ended up here, thousands of miles away, running a convenience store in the mountains, was anyone’s guess. Carter had a feeling it was probably better not to know.
As Carter reached the front counter, Jimmy Quinn sprang from the back room.
‘Hey, Carter. How you doing, man? Long time no see. Thought you might be dead.’
If Jimmy Quinn was five foot four, that was being generous. He was a tiny, tightly coiled man with a head of Brillo-like black hair and a wide smile that didn’t quite align with his hard, grey eyes. If his face said ‘Welcome,’ his eyes said ‘but watch your back.’
Carter smiled. ‘Hey, Mr Quinn.’ Always Mr Quinn. Never Jimmy. ‘Not dead yet.’
‘Good. That’s good, right? Best we can hope for, yeah?’
Jimmy Quinn talked at a rapid-fire pace, like Yoda on speed. If Yoda spoke with an almost impenetrable Liverpudlian accent.
‘You got everything on our list?’ Carter asked.
Miles phoned their list through to Jimmy every fortnight.
‘Yeah, yeah, most.’ Jimmy nodded. ‘I made a couple of substitutions. You know.’
Carter did. Jimmy Quinn once substituted tins of beans for wood sealant and flour for a fake pot plant. It was pointless asking what the substitutions were so Carter just nodded.
‘No problem. Miles agreed payment, yes?’
‘Yeah. Miles is sound. Not like some. Some customers I have to send my sons to see, you know?’
Carter had never seen another living customer in Quinn’s shop. But he had once seen the remains of one being dragged out by one of Quinn’s two burly minders.
He fished a parcel out of his pocket. ‘Miles added a few extras, for your good service.’
Jimmy Quinn eyed the parcel greedily, grabbed it and shoved it beneath the till. ‘Nice work. Miles is a good bloke, right?’
Wrong, Carter thought. But it was all relative.
He waited as Jimmy disappeared out back and returned with his sons. Carter had never been formally introduced, but he was pretty sure the threatening-looking dude with black tattoos creeping out of the collar of his shirt was called Sam and the scary-looking dude with slicked-back hair and a Bond villain scar running from eye to chin was called Kai. But he could be wrong. He always thought of them fondly as Thing 1 and Thing 2.
‘Here go you, lad.’ Jimmy winked.
Carter cleared his throat. ‘Erm, could I use the toilet?’
Jimmy Quinn stared at him.
‘It’s a long way back up the mountain,’ Carter added.
Jimmy chortled. ‘’Course. You don’t want to shit your pants, right?’ He nodded to Thing 2 on his left. ‘Let him use the crapper.’
Thing 2 accompanied Carter to the toilet located just to the left of the counter. He took out a key from a chain around his neck and opened it. The smell of sewage assaulted Carter’s nostrils. Thing 2 smiled as he blanched.
‘Enjoy.’
Carter stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Then he reached into his snowsuit, delved into his underwear and pulled out two clingfilm-wrapped parcels he had tucked inside. He lifted the cistern lid and dropped the parcels in. Then he flushed the toilet. A signal to Thing 2 that he was done. When he exited, Thing 2 would slip inside and retrieve them. By tomorrow, one of the parcels would be on its way to a small suburban town many miles away. The other, Thing 2 would keep.
Even in families like the Quinns’ there was no such thing as absolute loyalty. Thing 2 and Carter had come to an arrangement. Carter needed to send the parcels without Jimmy (ergo without Miles) knowing. Thing 2 was happy to siphon off a little extra to sell for himself.
Carter stepped out of the toilet. Thing 2 didn’t even look at him. Carter walked over to the groceries, which Jimmy Quinn and Thing 1 had already strapped to the skis outside.
‘Goodbye, Mr Quinn.’
Jimmy grinned. ‘Till next time, if you’re not dead.’
Carter laughed and waved, even as he thought that Jimmy wasn’t so far from the truth.
Sending the parcels was a big risk. But it was one he’d been willing to take. For her. Now the stakes had risen. Miles knew about the missing stock.
The question was – how long before he worked out Carter was the one stealing it?
Carter had hoped to get back to the Retreat before dark. But the encroaching storm had other ideas. It was barely mid-afternoon, he was only halfway up the slope, and already the light was failing, miserably. Skulking away to its room like a sulky teenager.
The wind buffeted his body, trying to shove him down the slope. Snow whipped and frenzied in the air. Not pleasant. Not one fucking bit. Carter grunted and dug his poles harder into the snow, heaving the groceries strapped on to the skis behind him.
It would be easier to trek closer to the woods. The snow wouldn’t be as deep, and he’d be shielded from the wind. But the woods were full of wildlife, grown emboldened in recent years. Fewer humans and less civilization had put them back on a more even footing. Humans were no longer the lords of all they surveyed.
And then there were the Whistlers.
Carter found himself casting glances towards the woods. Here the trees were still fairly sparse. Further up the slope they grew denser, creeping in on either side, dragging shadows like tattered shrouds.
He swallowed. Tried to force himself to focus on the task at hand. There was still a little light left in the day, despite the burgeoning black clouds. The Whistlers preferred full night. Pitch black. The sun was bad for their fragile skin. Whistlers were preternaturally pale, almost translucent. Like ghosts. Except, unlike ghosts, they didn’t drift around silently. Their arrival was preceded by the awful wet, whistling noise they made as they tried to drag in oxygen through their pitted and scarred lungs.
Stop it, Carter.
He stuck one boot in front of the other, stabbing the snow with his poles to drag himself up the slope. The clouds puffed out their chests and glowered darkly above him. Snow plastered itself against his goggles. Carter gritted his teeth. Wiped his goggles again. And then something caught his eye.
Movement up ahead. A blob of black amidst the whiteout. He blinked. A crow? Too big. An animal? Too tall. A figure, he realized. Stooped, staggering, falling on to the snow then righting itself again. Carter was still too far away to tell whether the figure was male or female. Or Whistler.
He paused. The figure was blocking his way back to the Retreat. He unhooked the straps around his waist that tethered him to the makeshift sled behind him. Then he dug his poles into the snow and anchored the skis to them. The snow was deep. They should hold for a while. He didn’t want to have to chase the damn groceries all the way back down the slope to the village.
Released from his load, Carter advanced towards the figure. If it had seen him, it didn’t show any signs of it. It seemed confused, circling raggedly in the snow. Lost? Injured? As Carter drew closer, he could see it was male. Shaven head. Dark clothes. No snowsuit. Carter’s unease increased. There were ruby-red splodges around the man, staining the snow. One arm was missing, torn from its socket, leaving a gaping, raw stump. An animal had been at him. Or maybe he’d been attacked by Whistlers.
Then the man turned, and Carter understood why he had been staggering around so blindly. He was blind. One eyeball had spilled from its socket and was stuck, frozen, to his cheek. The other was gone completely, along with half of his face. Eaten away, leaving nothing but gristle and bone.
Despite the mutilation, Carter still recognized him.
Jackson.
What the hell had he been doing out here? How had he got this far without dying from either blood loss or hypothermia? In addition to the other injuries, frostbite had already begun to eat its way into Jackson’s flesh. It was a miracle he was still alive. Without medical attention, that situation wouldn’t last much longer.
Carter glanced back towards the makeshift sled. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t drag the groceries and Jackson back to the Retreat. If he returned without the groceries, his conversation with Miles would be short, and unpleasant. But he couldn’t leave Jackson to die out here. Not like this.
‘Fuck,’ he cursed. Then, shouting into the void: ‘FUCK!’
You’re either a good guy or you’re a survivor, someone had once told him. The earth is full of dead good guys.
It was a salient piece of advice. Of course, the person who had imparted it was dead.
Carter had shot them.
Jackson fell forward, more blood seeping from his body and reddening the snow around him. He tried to claw his way towards Carter. From its new and unflattering position on his cheek, his remaining eye seemed to stare up accusingly.
Carter reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun.
Jackson’s mouth opened in a silent plea.
You’re either a good guy or you’re a survivor.
There were times, Carter thought, when being a survivor really sucked.
‘I’m sorry, man,’ he whispered.
And then he raised the gun and shot Jackson in the head.
Hannah
‘We can’t tell the others,’ she said firmly.
Lucas raised his eyebrows. ‘Why?’
‘Because they might panic. Right now, we need to keep everyone calm.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘We take the clothes and supplies as planned. Then we move the dead to the front of the coach, lay them across the seats, hide the infected body underneath, hope that no one checks.’
‘And hope that no one else shows symptoms?’
Hannah bit the inside of her lip but nodded.
‘I concur,’ Lucas said.
They stripped the bodies. The first couple they did somewhat gingerly, feeling the intrusion, the indignity. Several times, Hannah had to stop herself from apologizing to the dead person she was manhandling.
By the third, they worked quickly and less carefully, dragging off the clothes, checking pockets for anything useful, tipping snacks and water into a carrier bag they had found on one of the girls. Perhaps she used to get travel sick, Hannah thought, and felt a momentary twinge of empathy. No more travel for that girl. Never again.
She swallowed it down and carried on. Depending on sizes, they could double insulate with the extra outerwear. They now had more water, protein bars and fruit. It wasn’t much, but it would keep them going. Until rescue came. If rescue came. And then what? What about the infected student?
If you don’t inform the Department, Hannah, you are complicit in spreading the virus and endangering others.
She tried to shut out her father’s voice. But it lingered. Hannah knew the policy set out by the Department. As one of the world’s leading virologists, her father had helped to write it. Contain the infection at all costs. Shut it down. People presumed that meant isolation, quarantine. But this was a virus like no other. Spreading like no other. The only sure-fire way to shut it down was to shut down the carriers. Permanently.
