Spiral (16 page)

The man’s lips went tight.

‘Are you here to kill Natasha, or me?’

Silence. He looked straight ahead.

Carter’s fist slammed into his prisoner’s broken nose, and the man screamed, saliva and blood drooling from his mouth. His head hung, and then lifted slowly to stare at Carter. He spat into Carter’s face and grinned, deep red globules staining his teeth.

‘If that’s the way you want it.’

Carter grabbed the man’s hair, shouted for Samson, who was sniffing at the edge of the woods, and dragged the man up the stairs, wailing and bumping. He had to stop halfway up when a clump of hair finally came out in his fist, but he wound a larger portion between his fingers and dragged the man up the final steps, across the floor and into the kitchen. Moving to the back of the house he opened a door that led into a stone-floored utility room, mostly bare except for a washing machine and drier. It was terribly cold, and dark. Carter rolled the man down the three steps, and closed the door.

He returned to Natasha and slumped by her side. Her breathing was deep, her colour good. Samson trotted in and jumped into his basket in the corner, curling up and dropping asleep almost instantly.

Carter armed the house defences with the remote IR, placed his head on the sofa beside Natasha and wearily flicked on the TV. Keeping the sound low, he watched without interest as images danced in front of him. Carter hated the TV; the Americans called it the ‘dead-eye’ and he could understand why. But he acknowledged begrudgingly that it had its uses as he flicked through the news channels, eyes searching, brain working on maximum despite his weary state.

And then he saw it, like some incredibly bad coincidence ...

The camera swept across the devastation in London, across the huge circle of the explosion zone where once Spiral_H had nestled in its secret enclave. Carter did not listen to the reporter’s hysterical monologue because he did not need the commentary, and he did not care what the man had to say; instead his widened eyes watched the amateur camcorder footage, as filmed by a Japanese tourist. The sudden annihilation, the sudden disintegration, the sudden extinction of Spiral_H.

Carter rubbed at his eyes.

What’s fucking going on? screamed his confused brain.

He pulled free his ECube; the surface was dead. Not surprising, considering the HQ’s mainframes had just been obliterated in a single violent catastrophe of mankind’s chemical making.

Carter found that his mouth was dry.

The game was getting bigger.

The game was getting nastier.

‘I’ve fucking had enough of playing by somebody else’s rules,’
snapped Kade, surging into the forefront of Carter’s brain like a black brooding leviathan emerging from the darkest depths of the ocean.

‘You’re not the only one,’ growled back Carter.

For a while he dozed, drifting in uneasy sleep. When he awoke the fire was still glowing warmly, but outside he could see only pitch black, emphasised by small piles of snow caressing the windowsills. Carter looked over at Natasha. She was still sleeping deeply, her breathing regular. He checked the sterile dressings, and replaced them with fresh ones. Carter poured himself a large tumbler of Lagavulin, and retook his seat next to Natasha on the floor, on the rugs, sipping at the mellow fiery drink and staring into her face. She looked so serene in sleep, so beautiful.

And yet soon he would have to wake her; how long would it be before more men came after them? Men with guns, and with murder in mind?

He reached over and pushed some stray hair from her forehead. She murmured in her sleep, shifting slightly, and Carter stroked her cheek, enjoying the warm flushed skin under his fingers, his mood descending into one of melancholy moderated only a little by the bulk of the Browning against his hip.

More will come, he thought.

They will know that they failed, soon enough.

Natasha moaned in her sleep; she turned, sighing, then her face twisted in pain - stitches pulling tight. She coughed, settling back against the cushions. Carter fought his desire to wake her, question her. She had lost a lot of blood, was weak from the ordeal and her injuries, the shock of the GST. She needed to rest ... but not for long. They had to move; and move soon. How long did they have? Five hours? An hour? Ten minutes? Carter’s hand stroked the Browning.

He would be waiting.

And he would fuck them bad ...

Transcript of recent news incident

CodeRed_Z;

unorthodox incident scan 554670

The Russian government has fifteen missing nuclear-powered submarines.

These long-range undersea vessels, which are both nuclear-powered and carry nuclear warheads, have been officially confirmed missing in action after they disappeared, one by one, from sonar and other sophisticated ERV scanning and monitoring equipment.

Military-led rescue operations have been circling the areas where the subs were last monitored, and small one-man speed-subs have been diving in search of the missing vessels, but with no success.

Many countries have already been offering condolences for what could be one of the greatest ever marine disasters in peacetime. Reports to follow.>>#

T
he deck rolled gently beneath his thick grey boots, and looking across to the shore as the wind caressed his long curled hair and thick beard, he could see the darkened mass of the woods, ensconced in the embrace of deepest winter. Where the river poured into the sea, he could see that it had frozen in places and sported huge plates of ice slicing like flat axe blades of silver through the smooth waters. Seagulls flapped and cried like forlorn children, and fought along the edge of the Alaskan shoreline and the woods as dusk embraced this darkened corner of the world.

A wolf howled, distantly, lamenting the full moon, its eyes watching from the woods as the huge black battleship sat rocking gently in the calm icy bay. The wolf turned, and disappeared beneath the trees.

The man reached the door, heavy and black, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges. Giving a final, wistful look back towards the fresh freedom of nature, and the world beyond the sea which now trapped him, he dipped to enter the narrow confines of the ship’s corridor. He stepped carefully down the broad iron steps, his walking stick clanging as he felt his way with a precision and caution born of age; his frame was muffled in heavy furs, worn not just to protect him during the brief crossing by boat, but to offset the natural weather of this desolate part of the world.

Despite his age, he was a bear of a man, huge and brown, his head wrapped against the cold and ice by a circular fur hat, his face hidden under a huge shaggy grey-streaked beard.

Moving down the corridor, he paused as he reached a huge door that seemed somehow out of place; he wanted to enter,
needed
to enter, and yet still he paused. He considered knocking, but realised it would be a waste of time. Durell already knew he was there.

He pushed, and the huge door swung inwards.

He stepped forwards, into a darkness lit only by candles. The room was carpeted, and wood-panelled; huge rows of unevenly sized books lined the walls and through a tiny porthole grey light spilled in. The room was awash with shadows and gloom. Against one wall, almost out of place among the wood and old tomes, was a single silver bank of incredibly high-tech equipment; several white lights flickered across the surface, and a black screen reminded the man of a dead portal into another world.

‘Durell?’

‘I am here, my friend.’ A figure stood beside a stack of old, leather-bound books; tall and thin, shrouded in a black robe and wearing a voluminous hood that hid any features within a circle of obsidian darkness. The voice was rich, had melody and strength. ‘You may speak - we are alone for the moment.’

‘They failed,’ said the bear-clad man in Russian. ‘He has been a year out of Spiral. We thought him an easy target; retired, lacking the professionalism of the others.’

‘Even after the events in Germany with... Feuchter?’

‘That was luck.’

‘Your naivety astounds me. You ranked him so low on the list of priority kills, when in fact he should have been near the top.’ The smooth voice came from the folds of the hood and the bearded old man shivered.

‘What would you have me do?’ came the gravelled voice of the Russian. The voice was cracking under pressure. His stick came up, a swift movement for one who initially appeared so old and frail. The stick touched his shoulder and rested there, as if proffering some small protection against the black-robed figure before him. His fear was a tangible thing, physical, an aura surrounding him like a cloud.

‘Send the 5Nex,’ came the soft voice.

‘The 5Nex are ready?’

‘They have been ready for longer than you could possibly imagine; and there are battalions on the move, battalions preparing for war! Soon this ship will be the hub of our activities... yes, my friend, you are living through times of change and it is good for you that you are a part of them - integral, shall we say.’

The Russian gazed at the black-robed figure, sensing the smile, the show of teeth, within the darkness. His mouth was a dry line, his eyes seemingly filled with tears. His knuckles were white where they gripped the walking staff.

‘You may go,’ said Durell softly.

The large man turned, and stepped out from this chamber deep within the heart of the battleship - Durell listened as the walking stick rang down the corridor, the noise finally disappearing into the bowels of the apparently deserted and ghostly vessel.

The battleship rocked gently on eddies of sea current. Ice caressed her huge prow and black flanks, and glittered like diamonds across the frozen decks and the huge guns, which were silent and motionless.

Seagulls cawed outside the room’s porthole as Durell threw back his hood and cold eyes glittered in the mixed silver of candlelight and moonlight. A hand stretched out and patted the candle flames into extinction. Then he moved to the porthole and opened it, allowing the breeze of the wild darkness to invade his sanctuary.

Pain gripped him, but only for a few seconds of savage intensity. As his twisted face returned to calm, he licked his lips - a small red tongue darting out to smear a trail.

‘Soon,’ came the soft words. ‘Soon, Mr Carter.’

In the dream, Carter stood on a mountain plateau, a flat section, a
scoop
carved from the vertical wall of a vast towering black mountain that reared above a world of dark sand. Dust and jagged black rock squatted under his boots, and the sky stretched away for infinity, curled with trails of purple and yellow - a bruised night sky. Kade stood in front of him - with Carter’s own face, his own body, but deformed twisted corrupted sporting darker, brooding eyes, a heavier face and stockier set of shoulders. Altogether more—

Intimidating ...

‘Why have you come here?’
snapped Kade, standing beside a fire that burned within a small ring of rocks. The wind howled around them, through narrow channels of rocky teeth, and it whipped Carter’s coat and caressed his face with a corpse’s kiss.

‘I didn’t want to come here. It just happened,’ said Carter slowly, his words soft and without tension.

‘Fuck - off,’
said Kade harshly.
‘This is my place. My world. My mountain.’

Carter grinned without humour, his brow furrowing, and sat down cross-legged beside the wildly whipping flames of the fire. They crackled like tiny bottled demons. ‘I think I will stay,’ he said. ‘After all, many is the time
you
pay
me
unwelcome visits.’ This was something that suddenly amused him; an irony, a reversal of fortunes: here was Kade, his poise suddenly gone, his humour and bitterness appearing as melted ice. He was pissed off at Carter’s intrusion. ‘I never ask for
you
in my dreams,’ he said softly.

‘That is different,’
said Kade.
‘I
help you.’

‘Help me? Or help yourself?’

‘I
don’t know what you mean.’

Kade did not move. He remained standing, heavy brows furrowed at this unexpected intrusion. He stared down at Carter with ill-disguised distaste; as if he’d just found a rotting bone in his bed.

‘What do you want?’

Carter shrugged. ‘I want nothing. I did not request or intend to come here. This is only a dream.’

‘A dream to you; reality to me.’

‘As you are a dream in my reality?’

‘Yes. Until you give me life.’

‘What are you, Kade?’

‘I
am you, Carter.’

‘But what are you
really
?’

He caught the sly smile, and then it was gone. A fleeting shadow; a cloud passing before the sun.
‘I
am you,’
he repeated.
‘I
am the finger on the trigger. I am the power behind the punch. I am the hands pulling on the garrotte. I am the poison in the vial. I am you, Carter. I am your dark side, your bad side, your fucked side, your frustration and your anger and your hatred. Call them what you will. I am you - only you choose to debate my existence and I fear you will never accept me.’