Bad Dreams (42 page)

She thought about stopping and finishing him, but he was a quarter of a mile back by then, and there would always be others.

Cazie had had enough driving. She had things to do on campus. She did the tightest-ever U-turn, and was on her way again.

* * *

Longendyke was on perimeter patrol. And the Bozz Man had stuck with him some student dipshit called Barry Bewes, who kept asking questions he knew he had better not even think of answering.

The Need was overpowering. He stood rigidly to attention, fists clenched in his gauntlets, teeth gritted.

He wished he still had his gun. At least that would have been something to hold.

Barry kept yammering and jabbering, a white noise background.

He could feel the needles in his breast pocket, safe in cigar tubes, snug against his tit.

They were in a residential area of the college. Beyond the lines of student flats was an empty field.

The Bozz Man told him the Lynch-Mob wanted the campus population contained, and so they were enforcing quarantine. They were also on a naturewatch field trip and if they saw any rabbits they were to report in. Barry thought that was funny, but Longendyke knew nothing the Bozz Man said was funny.

He was sweating with the Need, burning with the Need.

He considered sighting an invisible rabbit and sending Barry off to make a report. He could claim that his headset mike was down. Then, when the limpdick was legging around, he could slip between the houses and administer the home remedy in a minute.

Then he would be flying solo.

Still, the Bozz Man was a bigger boogey than the Need. He would have to tough it out.

‘Look at that,’ Barry said, pointing.

Someone stumbled out of the nearest house, bleeding from the mouth and nose.

‘That’s Preston, from the Infirmary, one of the nurses.’

When Barry looked back, he had his faceplate up and in position. It cut out some of the noise.

The bleeder fell to his knees and Longendyke could swear that his head was expanding.

It was. This was no shitdream.

Nurse Preston’s cheeks inflated like a football, and his forehead bulged. White stretches of scalp showed in his hair. The neck expanded, and rips grew under the now-tiny-seeming ears. Panicked eyes shrank in gaping sockets. Seams appeared in his skin, and parted, showing red and muscle. The flesh swelled around his nose, making the protuberance an indentation.

Then Preston’s head exploded.

* * *

Lynch thought he had things under control, but Anderton knew different.

The CSD man had his back-up team deployed effectively, even if their guns were locked in their trunks. He had spread them around the campus, each one tagged with a student volunteer to keep them in line. Anderton knew how little provocation it would take for Lynch to order his men to get rid of their encumbrances.

Anderton had run every test he could get together at short notice on 125. Outside the body, it was a pushover – a few degrees temperature change either way, and it was dead mould. But inside, it was an unpredictable little bugger, and he would have to jab up another bunch of animals to have even a chance at guessing what it would do.

Finch had tabulated five or six possible reactions, none of them good. Lynch was not interested yet. Give him a few infectees, and he would start asking for treatment scenarios. Anderton knew the UCC man would be happier with a rifle in his hands than a hypodermic syringe.

Lynch had not had time to listen to the lecture Anderton had prepared, the one that began, ‘125 isn’t exactly a disease, it’s supposed to be a symbiote. In some ways, once you catch it, you could be
better
than you were before…’

The CSD man had left a suited guard, Tripps, to look after the team in the lab. Anderton wondered if he were there to keep externals away, or to make sure they stayed at their benches.

Anderton had a pain at the back of his neck from bending over too many microscopes, and he knew he was more likely to find a cure for cancer than deal with his dandruff. Since he had signed up with UCC and put himself in the supertax bracket, his life had been going down the plughole. The corporation was a lot like a virus in the way it acted on people – it got into your system, took it over completely, sucked out whatever it wanted, and left you behind as a pile of compost.

Once, at a reception, he had been within twelve seats of Josh Unwin. That was supposed to be an honour. Anderton thought the corporate head a vulgar publicity-seeker, and knew he was just the figurehead for a cabal of faceless boardroom plutocrats. Unwin was always off breaking land-speed records and appearing on television quiz shows. Meanwhile, the juggernaut of UCC rolled onwards, crushing anyone who got under its killer wheels. And UCC only provided a service. It had no use for Leo itself, it just had a client who dreamed up the specifics and made a commission. Anderton knew exactly the kind of people who would be the corporation’s clients on a project like this.

There was a chance, of course. If only 125 could kill the rabbits before they could pass it on.

If only…

Then the Infirmary called up, and told him about the three kids from York House. Thomas Ward, Clare Moyle, Peter Aston.

Then more reports came in.

125 was starting to get busy.

* * *

The Zombies would not let Brian and Monica into the unmarked lorry the UCC team were using as a field HQ, but Lynch came out to see them.

‘Miss Flint, thank you for your cooperation,’ he said, ignoring Brian as he had done in Jackson’s office. ‘You’ve been a great help. In these situations, panic can be as dangerous as a disease.’

How many of these ‘situations’ had Lynch been in?

‘What’s going on at the Infirmary?’ Monica demanded. Brian was impressed by her single-mindedness. ‘Why won’t your people let us see the patients?’

‘Risk of infection. Your Dr Hind made the decision:’

‘But you’re enforcing it?’

Lynch did not even look annoyed, although Monica’s tart tone made her opinion clear. When you looked like Frank Lynch, Brian supposed, you did not have to register anger to be imposing. Against his will, he could not help but be fascinated by the criss-cross scars on the man’s cheeks and neck. He had either been clawed by a lion or processed through a hay-baler. Brian bet the cat or the machine that had done it was in much worse shape than Lynch.

The man made a gesture of exasperation – oddly actorish, as if it was just an excuse not to answer a tough question – and tried to come across as the world’s most long-suffering small-town copper.

‘Miss, I wish you’d stop thinking of us as an Occupation Force. We’re here to help. There’s a very great danger, and you’ll only make things worse by treating us as if we were the Gestapo. We’ve gone out of our way to keep you, and the University authorities, informed.’

‘Then, who…’

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re very busy. If you could come by later, once we’ve sorted out where everybody is going to spend the night, I’ll give you a complete update on the situation. Take care.’

Take care!

Lynch went back into his lorry, and Brian and Monica were left with a couple of the Zombies.

They wore white jumpsuits, sealed at the ankles and wrists so the boots and gauntlets were part of the uniform. Balaclava hoods hung behind their necks. Brian knew if they added atmosphere-filtration masks with faceplates, they would look even scarier. Now, they only had expressionless faces to hide behind.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘For me, Jason. I phoned in, and Abigail says he’s okay, but I want to take a look myself.’

‘Abigail?’

She was jealous.

‘Just a babysitter. Who do you think I am, Warren Beatty?’

She thought of a clever answer, but threw it away unused. Brian saw she was too concerned with this chaos to keep up the wisecracks. That was good. This was serious.

* * *

Barry had got blood all over himself. At least the incident of the man with the Incredible Exploding Head had shut the kid up.

Now, Longendyke had been pulled from the perimeter. A couple of the medics had wrapped Barry up in a polythene bender and were carrying him between them like a shot leopard.

Someone was trying to talk to the student, trying to get a reaction out of him. In the sagging shroud, he looked as if he had been prematurely body-bagged.

Longendyke was a furnace inside. The Need, the needle…

As they trotted through the populated part of the campus, people got out of their way. Part of the CSD job was to radiate fuck-with-me-not vibes at all times.

The Bozz Man saw him, somehow recognized him through his mask and suit, and called him over.

‘Report to the truck, Longendyke,’ he said. ‘Gail will want to check you out.’

Gail was the field surgeon.

‘I feel fine, sir. These suits work real good.’

The Bozz Man growled. ‘Just do it, Longendyke.’

There was a distraction, and Sergeant-Equivalent Bosworth had his pistol drawn. The pistol that was supposed to be in the truck.

Barry jack-knifed out of the carriers’ hands, and was inch-worming across the grass. Two of the medics moon-hopped after him, but Longendyke got there first, coming down hard on the turdbreath’s back. The student struggled and kicked, but his hands had been twist-tied with a plastic tag. He was having a shit fit convulsion.

Through the two-layer shroud, which was cunningly perforated to allow air in but not let germs out, Longendyke saw Barry’s face changing.

This was not like the swellhead at the perimeter. Diamond-cluster crystals were forming just under the kid’s skin, pricking through bloodlessly, multiplying visibly, forming a crust, roughing up against the plastic.

There was a crackling like the rustle of a ton of angry cellophane.

Longendyke was hit by a spasm, and pushed himself away from the kid. His hands felt filthy where he had touched the plastic, and he was shaking all over.

The Need, the needle …

The medics got in, and started using their own needles.

‘What’re you giving him?’ he mumbled.

One of the medics shook a masked, hooded head. Don’t ask. It was like that. He might have known.

Barry broke up inside the plastic, crystals fragmenting. Longendyke saw what was left of his face freeze, and then crack apart, falling away from what looked like a jewel-encrusted skull.

The medic held up his hypo. The needle was bent and blunted.

The crystal mass still grew and shifted. Longendyke kept his guts down by sheer force of will. What was left of Barry Bewes looked as if it ought to be sealed in a barrel and buried under a seventy-foot concrete pyramid.

* * *

Outside the faculty cottages, Jason and Abigail were kicking a football around. Abigail was out of breath, but Jason was as active as ever. She clearly relished the opportunity to break off the uneven match and talk to Brian. She knew who Monica was, and admitted when they were introduced she had not voted for her. There was an awkward pause, and Brian left the women together as he chased after Jason.

His son saw him, and took off, shouting, ‘Help, there’s a monster coming.’

Brian was not used to running. His lungs ached. He made a mental note to play badminton more often. Then he got his wind, and sped up. How could an eight-year-old be so fast? The kid could not read yet, but he might be shaping up as an Olympic long-distance man. Fair enough.

Jason made it halfway up the hill, towards the woods, then doubled back to hide behind one of the Halls of Residence. Brian was catching up. As he ran, he saw people at the edge of the woods. In white suits. This was a real quarantine.

‘Jason, come here. This is Daddy being serious.’

‘The monster! The monster!’

Brian had to stop. That was a mistake. The exertion hit him when he stood still. His knees nearly went. He filled his lungs, and started running again. Jason was weaving back towards the bulk of the campus, in the general direction of the Humanities block.

‘There are no monsters,’ he shouted at his son.

Students milling round stared at him. The Zombies were not too visible a presence here. Finals were on. Brian bet there would be a lot of kids around who did not even realize there was a crisis because they were so worked up over their exams.

Outside the Engineering Department, where a hallful of would-be bridge builders were bent over papers, a lone, long-haired figure in a kaftan and a bowler hat walked up and down carrying a placard. BOYCOTT FINALS. It was the least successful protest of the year, but at least it was not doing any harm.

A couple of Zombies sat by the shallow pond, which some wit had dyed fluorescent green again, eating sandwiches. So they were human after all. Another cliché bites the dust.

Jason was not flagging. The kid was not sick, although Brian thought he might be when he caught up with him.

They were past the Schools now, near the Admin blocks and the Union Building. Brian was briefly worried that Jason might trip on the paved areas and hurt himself, but the kid was too sure-footed for that. He saw his son weave his way between the casual strollers. Great. The main entrance was up ahead. The Zombies would stop Jason for him.

‘Monsters, monsters, eeeeehh!’

Then Jason stopped, twenty yards short of the impromptu roadblock. Brian caught up with him, overshot by a few feet before he could stop his legs pumping pavement, and stepped back. He grabbed his son, and hugged him tight. He did not throw him in the air because, in his condition, he was not sure he could catch him.

Then the MG came out of nowhere and crashed the roadblock.

* * *

Pete felt okay. Packed all over in soft cotton wool, but okay.

They had heard the noise, and come to help him. Just a little prick in the arm, and he was okay.

They had washed the blood off, and brought him to the Infirmary.

He was not asleep. He had to answer questions. They had given him a shot to calm him down, a shot to put him to sleep, a shot to wake him up, and a shot to help him answer the questions. He had had a lot of shots.