THE FOREVER GENE (THE SCIONS OF EARTH Book 1) (33 page)

He chuckled.  "You are a loyal daughter and a true Mongol.  I am proud of you.  But you are young and your life is ahead of you.  You have the opportunity to see the wonders of the universe and you must take it. A life on the steppes would be a waste of your talents."

"Dad, I…"

"We will be together again in the spirit world one day.  You, me and your beautiful mother.  How I long to see her again.  And how she must long to see you, the daughter she never held in her arms."

The tears ran down her face as she tried to find the right words to say.  "I love you, Dad.  I will keep you in my heart always."

"Goodbye, Little Wolf.  Run strongly with your new pack."

The call ended.

By then, the shuttle was streaking through the stratosphere.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Haliburton Wray regained consciousness in a blinding haze of pain.  All he could tell at first was that he was lying on a cold stone floor.  When he tried to sit up, he found that part of a wall had fallen on him.  That would explain the pain, he thought.

He didn't know how badly hurt he was.  The only thing that wasn't pinned down was his right leg.  With what little strength he was able to muster, he began to kick feebly at the rubble.  If he could move it in bits and pieces, maybe he could get free without exacerbating any injuries he might have.

But after a few minutes of trying and failing to achieve anything, the feeling of being trapped got the better of him.  Abandoning his injury concerns, he kicked, pushed and wriggled himself free in an adrenaline fuelled surge of panic.

Crouched in the debris of what had been his cell for the last two years, he quickly examined himself.  Relief flooded through him when he discovered that nothing major was broken.  He was bleeding quite badly from a few lacerations and the ribs on his left hand side were on fire.  Thankfully he was able to stand up, although he discovered that his right knee was sore and swollen.

He tried to blink some of the dust out of his eyes.  One of them was gummed closed with what was probably dried blood.  He rubbed it until he could open it.  Then he looked around.  Bright sunlight shone down out of a clear blue sky and he gaped in awe.  Pentonville Prison lay in ruins around him, flattened by the blast.  His cell had been on the second floor of C Block, but now there was no second floor, there was no C Block, and there was no prison.

He had been wondering where the wardens and other prisoners were, but it began to dawn on him that many of them may have been killed.  The wall that had fallen on him had shielded him from the main force of the explosion and probably saved his life.

For an insane moment, he thought that he had better stay where he was.  He didn't want to be accused of trying to escape.  The last thing he needed was to have a few more years added to his sentence.  But there was nothing left to escape from, he realised.  No walls, no gates and no wardens.  As long as he turned himself in to the authorities at the first opportunity, surely he wouldn't be punished.  And anyway, he needed to find medical treatment for his injuries.

He scanned the rubble around him, trying to decide what he should do.  Wrist-links were not permitted in prison, so he was unable to call anyone.  A few feet away, he saw someone's head sticking out of the debris.  He stumbled over and cleared some of it away.  He recognised the bruised and bloody face; a nasty piece of work named Jackson whose cell had been on the floor above.  He crouched and felt for the man's pulse.  There was none and he realised that Jackson was dead.  He had been in prison on a twenty-year stretch for a variety of violent crimes.  No loss to society there, Hal decided.

He stood stiffly back up, fought off an attack of nausea, and began to pick his way towards where he thought the front entrance had been.  The going was treacherous and it took him a while to reach the street.  When he got there, things didn't look much different.  He looked up and down Caledonian Road, but all he could see were flattened buildings and burnt out cars.  Whatever had caused the explosion must have been massive.

There was something strange about the scene that he couldn't immediately put his finger on.  His head felt fuzzy, as if someone had stuffed it with cotton wool, and he was finding it difficult to think clearly.  He was probably suffering from concussion.  Even more reason to get medical assistance.  He looked around and realised what was out of place.  Nothing was moving and the place was eerily silent.  Where were the police and the ambulances and the emergency services?  Surely they should have responded to such a big disaster.  It made him wonder just how big the disaster was.

There was no point in standing there any longer.  He decided to go left down Caledonian Street.  It would take him into the city centre where he was sure to find help.  Wincing at the pain from his ribs and his knee, he began to limp down the road, taking care to avoid stumbling over jagged chunks of masonry, bits of shattered glass, twisted pieces of metal and other assorted impediments.

Occasionally he saw bodies, all of them lying completely still.  He didn't stop for them; he had no way of assisting anyone who might be alive.  The best he could do was to find the emergency services and tell them what had happened here.

He shambled along for a couple of hours.  There was little change in the landscape and he began to feel as if he was getting nowhere.  Eventually, he reached the intersection with what he thought was Euston Road.  He clambered up some steps to the front of a building which was no longer there.  To the right, he could see the remains of King's Cross St Pancras station.  Some of the squat structure was intact, but he could see nothing moving in its vicinity.

He decided to keep going and limped across the intersection into Gray's Inn Road.  At last, he began to see a few people who were still alive.  He spoke to one or two of them, but no-one seemed to know what had happened.

He was passing by a park when he heard a shout.  Moments later, an elderly woman, well-dressed but dishevelled, stumbled out into the road.  When she saw him, she started, as if he had given her a fright.  That was understandable, he supposed, given his bloodied appearance and the fact that he was in a prison overall.

Then she spoke.  "Please young man, can you help us?  My husband is being accosted by muggers in the park."  From her accent and the way she spoke he knew immediately that she was upper class.  He hesitated.  He was injured himself and getting involved in a fracas on behalf of a total stranger did not seem like a good idea.

Another shout came from the park and the woman looked towards the sound, her eyes wide with fear.  "Please, sir, my husband is an old man.  They will hurt him or kill him if no-one helps."  She stared at him beseechingly for a few seconds and then darted away, disappearing between the broken and splintered trees.  Moments later he heard her pleading with the muggers to leave her husband alone.

He couldn't help himself from following her into the park.  This was what had got him sent to prison in the first place, he brooded.  An innate desire to protect people; to rescue them from whatever evils they faced, whether it was injustice or their own personal demons.

His younger brother Thomas had always been in some trouble or other.  When he was at school, it was fighting and stealing.  Later on, it was drugs.  It was understandable; their father had been killed in Afghanistan when the boys were young.  And their mother had done the same as Tommy in a way.  She had become a drunk, eventually succumbing to some liver disease.

Hal had always kept himself on an even keel by nursing his anger; anger at his father for having gone to war, anger at his mother for having given up when her sons needed her most, and anger at the world for being a less than perfect place.  Anger is a crutch, people had always told him disdainfully.  Yes, but it is a pretty good one, he had decided.  It is strong, inexhaustible and can be used to thump anyone who needs thumping.  Hal got into a few fights himself. 

Tommy hadn't been able to develop a similar coping mechanism.  Hal tried desperately to help him but, no matter what Hal said or did, his brother would not listen.  He was on a slippery slope to destruction and Hal was powerless to save him.

When Tommy died from a lethal drug overdose, all of Hal's instincts kicked in.  Devastated at having failed to protect the one person who mattered to him, he turned to his old friend, anger.  This time the anger was white hot and Hal did not try to control it.  Instead, he stoked it and nurtured it; promising himself that he would turn it on those responsible for his brother's death.

It wasn't difficult to find out who had been supplying Tommy with drugs.  After weeks of surveillance, he traced the dealer back to his suppliers, a gang of four lowlifes operating from a flat in Putney.  He bought himself a semi-automatic pistol, an old Desert Eagle, perfectly legally as he had no criminal record.  He spent a few months training himself to use the weapon at a shooting range, at the same time staking out the flat and familiarising himself with the gang's habits.

Late one Friday night, when he judged himself ready, he walked into the flat in Putney.  The Eagle felt comfortable in his hand and he had rehearsed the scene over and over at the shooting range.  The gang members were all there, stoned and drunk, as he knew they would be.  He shot the first two at point blank range before they even knew he was there.  The others grabbed weapons and fought back, but they were slow and unsteady.  Hal ignored the bullets which flew past his head and coldly gunned them down.

He made himself scarce before the police could arrive.  He had one more job to do before he was caught.  He knew exactly where his brother's dealer would be that night, and marched straight into the shabby little diner the man used to flog his merchandise.  The dealer saw him coming and tried to run for the back door, but Hal put two heavy calibre bullets through him before he had taken half a dozen steps.  Then, while the dealer bled to death on the floor, Hal put the gun down and waited for the police.

The Judge who sentenced him on five counts of murder was remarkably lenient.  He took into account the extenuating circumstances and gave Hal ten years imprisonment, five of which were suspended.  A year in prison for each drug dealer; Hal decided the price was worth it.  In Pentonville, the impressive nature of his deeds earned him a measure of respect from the other prisoners.  Even Jackson had left him alone for the most part.

Stepping cautiously between the trees bordering the park, he gave himself a moment to survey the scene before him.  Two youngsters who couldn't have been more than twenty years old had thrown the old woman's husband to the ground.  One stood over him, holding a knife.  The other was going through their victim's clothes, trying to find something of value.  The woman stood a few yards away, shaking with terror.

Hal's anger sparked.  In the middle of appalling death and destruction, these mindless yobbos had decided to take advantage of the situation by robbing a defenceless old couple.  The old man tried to struggle to his feet and the thug holding the knife aimed an ungainly kick at him.  Hal had seen enough; these two wouldn't be much trouble.  He walked quietly towards the struggle, getting to within a few feet before they noticed him.

"Get lost, mate," shouted the thug with the knife.  "This is none o' your business!"  He waved the knife threateningly.

Hal gave him a cold stare.  "I'll give you one minute to let him go and get out of here."

The yobbo laughed, taking a step towards Hal and waving the knife again.  "Are you blind?  I'll use this if you don't get lost."

Hal said nothing more, adopting a relaxed stance and waiting for the thug to make his move.  The other yobbo left the old man and moved towards his friend.  "Cut him, Gaz," he said.

The woman took the opportunity to run around them to her husband's side.  The yobbos ignored the two of them for the moment.  After watching Hal uncertainly for a few seconds, the one called Gaz decided to act on his friend's prompting.  He rushed at Hal, swiping at his face with the knife.

Hal swayed backwards, easily evading the attack.  Then, as the clumsy swipe left Gaz momentarily unbalanced, he swayed forwards, putting his whole body weight into a right-handed jab.  He connected solidly with the side of the yobbo's jaw, feeling bones break satisfyingly beneath his fist.  Gaz collapsed in a heap, stunned by the force of the blow.  The knife dropped from his fingers onto the grass.

Hal waited again, making no move to pick up the knife.  Ignoring the pain shooting through his ribs, he fixed the second yobbo with his cold glare.  The latter looked at his mate, then at the knife, and then back at Hal.  What passed for his mind eventually came to the right conclusion.  He scuttled over to the slack-jawed Gaz and hauled him to his feet.  Then the two of them scurried away.

Hal limped over to the elderly couple and helped the old man up.  He was bleeding from a cut on his head, but didn't look badly hurt.  Like his wife, he was also smartly dressed; probably a well-to-do business type.

"Thank you, young man," he said in a very plummy accent.  "Your assistance is much appreciated. If there is anything I can do for you in return, please don't hesitate to ask."  He glanced nervously at Hal's overall.  "Have you, er, come from Pentonville?" he asked.

"Look," said Hal, slightly exasperated.  "The Prison has been destroyed.  I don't know what happened.  I am just lucky to be alive.  As soon as I see a policeman, I will turn myself in."  He turned and limped back towards the street, intending to be on his way.

"Wait, young man," said the woman, hurrying after him.  "Please excuse my husband; he has been through a lot."  Hal stopped and allowed them to catch up.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," he replied.  "I thought I might find emergency services nearer the river.  There are a lot of people who need help along Caledonian Road."

"We need to go to Downing Street," she replied.  "As long as you are going that way, may we accompany you?  It isn't safe around here."

Now, Connie," said her husband, with another glance at Hal's overall.  "I'm sure we can make our own way there.  We can't impose on this young man any further."

"Don't be silly, Winston.  We owe mister, er…"