Storm (9 page)

“You have to go,” she says.

HEY!
my brain shouts.
HEY! I THINK THIS LADY IS TRYING TO HELP
YOU!

I get it! I suppose staying in any place with security cameras isn't a good idea, in case some bored bloke in front of a bank of screens decides to investigate the witch-fairy. If they work out who I am, I'm out of here—because I am officially useless, doncha know?

“Thanks,” I tell her, studying her face for some sort of sign about the secret tip-off she's just given me, but she has a flawless smile mask painted on her face (unlike my face, which, though I don't realize it, is now a total smudgy mess). I am deeply impressed by her self-control. (Although I suppose nurses get trained for that sort of thing. “This won't hurt a bit,” etc. They are brilliant at remaining cheery during hideous and difficult situations of all kinds.)

I stand, pull on the coat she's just handed me because it would seem rude not to, and look for some sort of sign about where exactly I should go, because all I see is a maze of doors. On one I see it: a label. One word:

Sunnyside

That's what it says—in cute, kiddie-friendly letters. Clowns cavort with balloons on either side of it. A most un-cute, un-kiddie-friendly memory of something Saskia tried to say the night before goes shuddering through my brain—

“Over there,” the nurse is saying, pointing at another door.

“Thanks,” I say again, nodding significantly at her.

“Just go,” she hisses at me through a cheesy smile.

Honestly, there's no need to get nasty about it
, some part of me starts up, but I am too
dog dead
tired and depressed to pursue it. There's no point even asking if I can have my ice-cream van back; the last I saw of it, it was being invaded by people in biosuits, and in any case, I doubt there'd even be enough gas left to get me to the gate…so I just plod to the door and go.

As soon as I get outside, I realize I don't even know how to get back to the gate. The door has shut behind me. My fist goes to hammer on the door so I can demand directions, but maybe that's not the best idea…not least because I can feel a small flame of anger licking round my heart. I'm in a sort of hub of army polytunnels—walkways between buildings. These people, they don't even have to worry about what the sky is doing. These people are
safe
.

I stand there for a moment, feeling the small flame crackle, trying to figure out which way to go. I pick the longest tunnel—I can hardly see the door at the other end—and trudge down it.

Some woman marches straight past me and gets to the door ahead of me.

“Excuse me—” is as far as I get with asking where I should go to throw myself out of here, because when she bats that door open, I am struck speechless.

It's the army play park. An undercover oasis. They've got themselves a gigantic polytunnel stadium thing, trees in it and everything. Swings and stuff for kids, places to sit and chitchat about the apocalypse… This is probably why they let the ice-cream van in. Cleaned up, it will make a nice addition. People—normal people, not just soldiers and medical types—are sauntering about or standing, gossiping. A bunch of blokes are playing basketball. Some fool is even going for a jog.

I sure wish I had hair left to fiddle with, because I need something comforting to do right now…while I stand, watching, feeling the flame burn brighter and harder. I notice someone noticing me, so I glare at them (“Yeah? What's it to you,
safe
person?”) and start walking.

It is an OUTRAGE.

But le cherry on le icing on le great big fat army cupcake is:

Outside one of the many doorways leading in and out of this place, I see a chalkboard sign with a dinner menu on it. It's written in French so fancy it is way beyond even my superb grasp of the language. (“
Je m'appelle Ruby. J'habite en Dartbridge. J'ai quinze ans.
”) Fancy French for a fancy menu: it's
à la
this, and
au sauce
that, and
avec
and
et
. Yes, there's a lot of
avec
s and
et
s. Then, scribbled at the bottom, it says:

IRISH STEW

EGGS, HAM, CHIPS, + BEANS

I used to be a vegetarian, but anything—anything—on that menu would do for me right now. With all the
avec
s and
et
s you can eat. The mystery of where they'd be getting all that food is of no concern at all to me. I am reading my own thought menu:

Quelle brilliantness!

I am going in!

What's the worst that they can do?

The worst they can do is kick

me out—et I was going to kick myself out anyway!

Ha! Ha! Avec Ha! Ha!

I go in. My stomach couldn't care less, but my brain is pleased to note that this canteen place just looks and feels like any normal kind of canteen—which is just as well, because I'm really not going to have enough time to do any kind of thorough reconnaissance before I drown in a pool of drool. My two principal observations are: there's nobody much in there and—

Noooooooo! THEY'RE CLEARING THE REMAINS OF THE FOOD AWAY!

Oh, honestly, really, I am probably going to be thrown out of this place any second now, so I might as well…

I grab me a tray and a plate and rush at the counter.

“Could I just get some of that?” I say, gripping the edge of the metal tray of leftovers this cook type in chef's whites is about to remove.

He looks at me in a startled way (for reasons—to do with my face—that I will understand shortly) and for a micro-nanosecond I am fairly somewhat startled by him too, because he really does look like that French chef bloke off the TV, the one my grandma really liked, but there is no time to dwell on that because I am already shoveling
le
contents of the tray onto my plate. I scrape it clean. He gives me the sort of disgusted-chef look that makes me think he really might be that bloke off the TV, but I do not have time to dwell on that either because—

AARGH! They're clearing away the desserts!

By the time I've finished, my tray is so heavy, my arms are questioning how long they can hold it as I turn and… So the whole place is pretty much empty, right? There are a few people left, lingering over
le
top nosh, but I want to sit away from people. I want to stuff my face in peace, then find a place to sleep—in this canteen if I have to. I look to the far end of the room; it is darker there, the lights down at that end off already, chairs stacked on tables. Only one person sitting there, alone.

I must be really, really, really hungry, because I suddenly feel all shaky and my stomach does this funny flip.

As I get closer, I see that he has a book open in front of him…but he isn't trying to read in the darkness; he is just staring out of the window—into space, I presume, because you can't see into the stadium from here and the view's not all that, just more boring buildings. But at least he can see the view; he's got new glasses.

D-A-R-I-U-S    S-P-R-A-T-T

I wish I knew how terrible I look, but maybe I don't look terrible at all. This is not because I care about what Darius Spratt thinks, you understand. This is for the sake of my own dignity. There's quite a lot of black makeup gloop on my hands, but it can't really be smudged all over my face, can it? (Oh yes, it can!) On my tray, the tiny upside-down reflection of me in the spoon (for quicker stew shoveling) gives no real clue—because the light is so bad, I suppose. I'd rustle up some inner dignity, but I won't be able to hold the tray for long enough to get that done. I take a deep breath and a long, shaky walk across that room.

I spill my water putting the tray on the table. It goes all over my food.

The Spratt, startled, looks around and—

“Ruby!” he gushes.

This makes a change from what he usually says to me, which is, “What have you done to your hair?” That will be coming, I am sure. For now, the gushy voice is the least of it—he actually surges to his feet and opens his arms and—

I dump myself down as elegantly as I dumped the tray. There will be no hugging here, I can assure you.

“Hi,” I say—as
curtly
and as crisply as I can manage.

The Spratt gawks at me with joy and—oh no! You're kidding me! Glistening tears well in his eyes. (TEARS OF GUILT. Should be.) The effect on me is horrific; I have had a very traumatic time and very little sleep and so, in my weakened state, I feel a surge of emotion at the sight of his familiar, nerdy face. (See how dreadful apocalypses are?)

“
Siddown
!
” I hiss.

The Spratt sits back down—but he can hardly stay in his seat; he leans across the table at me, and I see his hand creeping across it toward my hand, which is just lying there,
dog dead
exhausted by all the goings-on. I grab my spoon and shovel stew into my face. It is hard to swallow. I am starving, and the
irksome
presence of the Spratt is putting me off my food.

“You're alive…” he breathes at me.

Yup. He is definitely one of the smart, useful people. I nod at him in a mean sort of way, eyes narrowed; if my mouth wasn't crammed full of unswallowable cold stew mush, I'd tell him straight out what my look is intended to convey: “NO THANKS TO YOU.”

“Did you find your dad?” he blurts.

How did he do that? How did he just manage to pick the one question that stabs me straight in the heart? I have been back in the Spratt's company for approximately ten nanoseconds and already I am wigging out. Right. I've got to shut him up. I need to swallow so I can talk. I grab his mug of—cocoa? He's drinking
cocoa
?!—swig, and force that stew mush down.

“Oh, Ruby,” he whispers softly, like he already knows the answer. So softly and kindly and sweetly, I feel myself choking up—which is even more annoying than wigging out.

I shove my plate of food away, mainly so the spoon is out of reach. Otherwise, I would be tempted to find out if you can stab with one. Instead, I stab with words.

“Did you find your mom?”

The Spratt is adopted. He now basically has a snowflake's chance in hell of finding her.

He glances around, and I think he's about to yell at me, which I already know in a way—but only in a certain sort of way—I would deserve for asking such a cruel question—but no: “I did,” he whispers, his eyes wide with the marvelousness of the thing.

The seething troll monster of my own feelings bristles. I'd slap it, but it is covered, all over, in razor-sharp spines. It has a heart though; somewhere in the
gargantuan
raging mass of its troll body, a small, sad, human heart beats.

“Really?” I say.

“Kind of,” he says. He glances around again. “I looked it up,” he whispers—so I'm guessing he wasn't supposed to or something. “I know who she was—her name and where she lived. I just don't know what happened to her, you know…”

I do know. I know exactly. And I know exactly what that feels like. And I also remember the too-many times (twice) the Spratt dared to point out to me that my dad was probably dead, and the troll monster wants to say this now, to him, about his mom, and see him hurt, but I just can't stand it. I can't stand any of this. I get up, shoving my chair backward.

I don't know where I think I am going. I have nowhere to go.

I burst into tears.

“Ruby!” says Darius.

His arms are around me. His arms do not feel the spines. The troll monster shudders and judders with tears.

Ah-hoo, ah-wah, ah-wooh
, blubs the troll.

But you will notice that it was the troll that was crying and not the small, sad human heart.

The Spratt led me to another block and into what was basically a cell. As I have actually seen a cell—in Dartbridge Police Station—I would in fact say that it was smaller than a cell. There was one tiny single bed in there, one chair, one minute desk, a tiny TV screen stuck high on the wall, and a closet. Not exactly five star, but maybe those people in the camp were so gorged out on scarfing delicious food all day that they just needed somewhere to flop in between.

I had not scarfed delicious food, but I did need to flop—so I flopped on the bed. Darius hesitated, then took the chair—keeping his distance from my body, but not—unfortunately—from my mind.

“Ruby…” he started up.

“What?” I muttered. It felt like there was this slow-motion thought whirlpool in my head—like probably there were things to be said, but all those things were mixed up, bobbing in and out of sight as they swirled around and around and around, spiraling into sleep. Fat chance.

“I'm so glad you're here,” he says. “I was going to come and look for you.”

“Yeah, Saskia said,” I mumble, my eyes drifting shut.

“You've seen Sask?!”

“Yes,
Dar
, I've seen
Sask
.” I sigh. “She's in the hospital.” I haul a thing out of the whirlpool; it is Saskia's foot. “Well, most of her is. Her foot went in some water and someone had to, you know,
remove
it.”

“Oh my
.”

“With an ax.”

I feel so sick. I think I'm going to be—my eyes snap open, and I edge myself up. The Spratt is staring at me with a horrified look on his face.

“It was what she wanted,” I tell him. I hear Sask begging:
Cut it off, cut it of
f
!
“And then I brought her here myself, in an ice-cream van. Have you got something to drink?”

The Spratt seems to take a moment to process this simple request. He gets up and rummages in the cupboard and hands me a can of something. The crack and hiss of the ring pull is loud as a bomb.

“Is she OK?” he asks.

“I don't know,” I say. “They said she'd be fine. I don't think the rain thing got her, but she lost a lot of blood.”

I glug the fizzy drink, something disgusting I don't even like.

“And a foot, obviously,” I add. “I think I'm going to be sick…”

I lurch off the bed looking for something, anything, to throw up into—there is only a trash can, so I throw up into that, the Spratt rubbing my back and me too weak to resist.

“Sorry about that,” I tell him, wiping spew drool from my mouth. I feel disgusting, inside and out. And I'm dehydrated, aren't I? You'd think I'd know the signs by now, but, hey, no one's perfect. (
Not even me
, booms the troll.)

I sip at the drink in the can. At least it's a fluid. My stomach grudgingly accepts it.

“She said she didn't want to come back here, not ever.”

“Yeah, well,” says the Spratt.

“She was screaming her head off about it.”

“Look, Ru,” says Darius. “Saskia…she got a little spooked.”

I am too weak to tell him not to call me Ru. I try to lie down—the whirlpool starts up and my head spins with it. I sit back up. If I think about how I feel, I really will spew again—not that there's anything left in me to spew out, so I might as well attempt to continue with this hideous conversation.

“What about?” I ask the Spratt.

I cannot imagine what's coming next. There are plenty of things to be spooked about in an apocalypse—being forced to share a room with Darius Spratt, for example. Sask can't have liked that unless…

“Well,” says the Spratt, “she kind of got it into her head that…”

He tails off, looks doubtfully at me.

“What?!”

“Oh, it's such a horrible thing, Ruby. Maybe now isn't the best time.”

“Believe me,” I tell him, “there is NOTHING you could tell me that's any more horrible than the stuff I've
actually
seen
.”

The troll within me is stirring. I've been in this place for, like, five seconds and I already know that whatever counts as a trauma in this place—for example, they've run out of caviar to put on their cornflakes—does not count as a trauma in the real world—of the useless—where I have been forced to live.

“It's just a rumor,” he says.

Ha! It's not even a REAL thing!

“And this place is full of rumors. People say all kinds of crazy stuff.”

Yeah, and outside here, they DO it. (That would include me too, of course.)

“Someone told Saskia they're experimenting on people,” Darius says.

Huh…

“You know, trying to find a cure?”

I nod. That's what experimenting is, isn't it? Trying to find stuff out. I mean, actually, when you think about it, it would even make sense—in a way, I mean. If this thing doesn't harm animals, what else would you test a cure on?

People, obviously.

WHAT?!

“It's nonsense, of course—Sask even thought so herself…to begin with. But then this girl she worked with disappeared, and Saskia was convinced that… Well, I think she thought…people were being done away with. You know?
Experimented
on?”

Darius, you made it sound crazy. And it seemed crazy. But.

“Sunnyside,” I whisper. It comes back to me again like a thing from a dream, a thing Saskia was trying to tell me—the only word I remember.

“Yeah,” says Darius. “She said that to you too?”

I nod.

“She got spooked, Ru. She snooped around…and she thought it was a thing that got put on people's records when…they'd gone to be
experimented
on.”

That's what she said, wasn't it? I see Saskia, drunk, hanging on to me, going “Sunnyside, Ruby,
Sunnyside
. They're killing people.
Sunnyside
…” and me shaking her off, so I could dance. I just wanted to dance.

“She thought it might be her next,” Darius is saying. “She was doing an admin job—but it was an easy one, not exactly that skilled. I think she thought she might be
expendable
.”

I am staring at him.

“Ru! It's OK! It's just stupid nonsense! Honestly! People come and go from here all the time!”

“Saskia ran away…”

“Yeah, I guessed that's what she did.”

“…and I brought her back.”

“Ruby…”

“I thought it was the right thing to do.”

“Of course it was the right thing. Of course it was!”

“Darius, you didn't hear her
screaming
.”

He leaves his chair and crouches down in front of me, puts his hands on my sparkly witch-fairy knees, and stares up into my face.

“None of it is true, Ruby. None of it. People are just scared, that's all. Scared people say crazy things, and other scared people believe them.”

I nod slowly. I want to believe this. I've heard crazy stuff myself: “I got told the government knew the rain was coming. That they knew and they didn't warn us.”

Darius looks down at my knees. I want him to tell me it isn't so.

“Yeah,” he says. “That part might be true, Ruby.”

He looks up at me. No, I don't want to believe this. I don't want to believe this.

“I don't know. It's what a lot of people are saying.”

“Darius…”

His family, his family's friends, his neighbors—they all died too.

“They seemed
prepared
here, that's all,” he says. “I mean—not brilliantly prepared or anything. There's stuff that's taken months to sort out…just like maybe they had a head start.”

We stare at each other. I know we're both thinking of our families…and though it's not exactly appropriate right now, “head start” makes me think of school and of games and of watching delighted teachers watch the fast kids, while the likes of me and Darius Spratt huffed and puffed at the back, losing.

“It's done now,” Darius says. “It's done.”

I stare bleakly at him.

“And Saskia was wrong,” he says. “All that's happening here right now is there are people trying to find a cure.”

I am nodding this calming information into my brain—where it sits, very unhappily, alongside that memory of Saskia—calm, cool, superpoised, supersmart Saskia—screaming her head off.

“Really,” says Darius. “
All
that is happening in this place is that there are a lot of people working twenty-four/seven to try to work this thing out. Day and night, Ru, that's all we're doing.”

“We? Is that what
you're
doing?”

“Yeah! Course! I've got a job here too. Everyone has. Know what I do all day? I crunch numbers.”

What numbers, Darius Spratt?
That's what I should have asked him. But I drank up every calming word he spoke.

“You can't imagine how boring it is,” he says.

Crunching numbers? Oh, I think I can.

“But we've just got to get on with it.
I've
just got to get on with it. That's the only way we're going to be able to sort this thing out.”

I nodded. I felt reassured. I did. I believed Spratt the Sensible. I believed him because he believed himself. And, in a way, everything he said
was
true…because he didn't know any better.

“I'll go see Sask tomorrow,” says Darius. “See how she is.”

I nod a bit more.

“Look, I kept all your stuff,” he says.

From under the bed he pulls out bag after bag of my looted goodies. (Although I see instantly that they are not how I left them. Things have been
folded
. That's pretty freaky in itself, but it also means that someone has been through it all. It is possible that Darius Spratt has touched my ten thousand pairs of looted knickers, the only slightly sensible thing I packed when I first went looking for my dad.)

“Well, most of it. We couldn't fit it all in here, so we had to dump some of it. Sorry.”

I'm not really listening because… Come to Momma, pretty baby, come to Momma… I've just found ♥
my phone
♥. I'd kiss it, but the Spratt is watching—and in the next second, I discover even my beloved cell phone has been
touched
. Not only is it charged…

“
It's unlocked
!
” I shriek.

“I… It…it's not what it looks like!” the Spratt stammers, flustered.

Know what? It IS what it looks like. He's gone bright red. He has SO looked on my phone.

“You
! How DARE you!”

“Whoa! No! Ruby! OK, I did look, but just to see whether anyone had called or anything—”

“Have they?!” I'm jabbing away at my phone now, checking everything: messages, call logs. My fingers claw and scrape at the screen; all by themselves, they remember what to do.

“No,” says Darius.

I cradle my phone to my heart. I am as cross as cross can be, but I feel a troll-ish
ah-hoo, ah-wah, ah-wooh
trembling on my lips.

“We decided to do it—”

“
We?
!
”

“Me and Sask.”

Uh. My mind spins somewhere way out of the known universe thinking what's on that phone, what they've both seen. Some particularly nasty comments about Saskia come flashing back like incoming texts in my memory.

“We were just worried about you, Ru. They keep saying they're going to get the cellular networks back,” Darius blunders on, “so we thought we should keep the phones charged up—you know, in case anyone called. There's this guy I work with who cracks them in exchange for water. He likes taking baths. Got a tub in his room, I heard. Oh, Ruby, I…”

More private incoming messages pop up in my head, and I can't help myself: I groan out loud.