Domain

He glanced around, up, lips forming a single-syllable word, and swiftly lowered himself onto the first few rungs of the ladder. He looked up once more just before his head and shoulders disappeared from view, his gaze catching Culver's and a knowing look passing between them. The understanding was of cold desperation.

Kate slid into the opening after Fairbank and froze when she saw the foaming water beneath her feet.

A less than gentle shove from Culver set her moving again. Icy wetness gripped her, closing around her thighs, her stomach, stealing her breath, pulling and tugging in an effort to dislodge her from the ladder.

Yet she felt the current was not as strong as before; the waters flowing from separate sources were now fusing with less force. However, it still needed Fairbank's strength to keep her steady once she had stepped onto the floor.

Culver joined them in time to see Ellison take aim at the ceiling again. The engineer released a short spurt of bullets

and Culver was surprised when a grimace that could have only been a smile appeared on Ellison's face.

'Where're Dealey and the others?' he called across to the engineer, who lowered the submachine gun towards him before indicating the Operations Room with the barrel. Ellison raised his eyes towards the ceiling again and Culver was strangely reminded of the bloodless eyes of a pike searching for stickleback.

Ellison appeared eager to kill and Culver was relieved that only vermin were the targets. Instability, neuroses, and even a touch of madness had become part of the bunker ambience, the effects of grief, claustrophobia, and the knowledge that permanent safety no longer existed. Only the symptoms varied.

There were figures already emerging from the doorway of the Operations Room, struggling through the current and staring with disbelief at the chaos that confronted them. Dealey was among them and he had that same frightened look he had worn when Culver had first laid eyes on him just, it seemed, a few centuries ago. Culver let go of the steadying ladder and made his way towards the group, Fairbank and Kate following close behind, the girl clinging to the engineer for support. Debris floated by - pieces of equipment, paper, books, chairs - spinning with the converging currents. The body of a dead rat, its belly exposed and ripped where bullets had torn through, bumped against Culver's hip and he hastily pushed it from him. He reached Dealey as more gunfire opened up, but this some distance away in another part of the complex. As if encouraged, Ellison resumed shooting.

Culver almost knocked Dealey over as a sudden surge carried him forward into the group; Farraday, close behind the Ministry man, was able to hold them both.

'Can the shelter take it?' Culver shouted, bracing himself against the flow. Will it be completely flooded?'

Tm not su - God, yes, if the flood doors in the tunnels haven't been closed—'

They won't have been!'

Then it depends on how heavy the deluge is.'

'Are we above the sewers?'

Dealey shook his head.

'Okay, our best chance is up on the machinery and the catwalks. We'll have to turn the power off, though, before everything blows. And we need guns to protect ourselves from the rats!'

'No, we can't stay here, we must leave!' Dealey tried to move away from Culver, but the pilot held him.

There's no way. Water's coming through the tunnel exit - we'd never get through!'

There's another place, another way out we can use!'

Culver moved his grip to the other man's jacket lapels, angrily pulling him close. What? You crazy bastard, did you say there's another way out?'

Dealey tried to disengage himself. There might be! At least it will get us above ground level!'

Where is—'

'Oh my God, look!' Farraday was pointing towards the corridor leading to the dining area and kitchen.

For the moment, Culver forgot Dealey and drew in a sharp breath when he saw Clare Reynolds pushing through the water, sliding against the smooth wall for support, leaving a smeared trail of blood in her wake. Her mouth was wide as if in a silent scream and her eyes, spectacles gone, were staring wildly ahead. Her body was slightly arched, head drawn backwards; a black creature clung to her back and chewed into her neck.

Two, three, four - Culver counted five black shapes -glided past her, headed in the direction of the canteen, ignoring the agonized doctor as if the fellow creature already lodged on her had made its claim.

Or perhaps they sensed further helpless prey not too far away. More torpedo-like forms appeared, coming from the switching-unit area beyond which lay the artesian well. That had to be the shelter's weak point, Culver surmised; both the floodwater and the vermin must have gained entry from there. Even as these thoughts were rushing through his head, Culver was rushing forward to reach Clare Reynolds, treading high and brushing a path through the water with his hands as if pushing through a wheatfield.

Tiny water gushers exploded before him, beating their own splattering trail towards the swimming rodents, and Culver turned to roar at Ellison, to warn him off, for Clare was too near, too exposed.

Whether the noise in the flooding complex - the meshing water, the shouts, the screams, the fizzing, sparking electrical equipment, the crashing of uprooted machinery and furniture, the crackle of machine-gun fire itself - drowned Culver's voice, or whether Ellison was too frightened or too crazed to hear, there was no way of knowing; the bullets continued to create a field of miniature eruptions between Culver and the doctor, who was feebly trying to reach behind and pull the gorging rat from her neck.

Dark bodies leapt from the water as bullets struck them, high-pitched, child-like screeches piercing the overall wall of sound, throwing others of their kind into mad confusion so that they lost direction, scrabbled around in tight, disorientated circles, squealing their own terror. Two approached Culver, eyes insane, teeth bared, incisors high above the water line.

A spray of bullets pulverized the skull of one and almost tore the other in half. They disappeared beneath the surface in a dark spreading cloud of blood.

Culver moved forward again, wary of the gunfire and praying that Ellison would keep his aim as far away from him as possible. Meanwhile, Fairbank had seen the danger and was trying to reach Ellison.

He was only a few feet away when a human body, floating face downwards, spun into him, turning over as it did so to reveal an open crimson mess in its shoulder and throat.

The jolt sent Fairbank reeling backwards, causing him to lose balance, to fall into the turbulent water, the outstretched arms of the dead man becoming entangled in his own so that the corpse sank with him, plunging down in macabre embrace. Fairbank screamed below water and his throat was filled, choking him, sending him spluttering and heaving to the surface, thrashing out blindly to regain his balance.

Culver was still five yards from Clare when her body jolted rigid and holes punctured her chest, rapidly moving upwards, the last appearing in her turned-away cheek before continuing a splattering pattern in the painted plaster behind her. She turned her head, the rat and the searing pain forgotten in the all-encompassing white shock. Although dying's full agony would take a few moments to touch her, red stains swiftly spreading outwards from the deep wounds, Clare was fully aware of what had happened, could see the gunman some distance away (strangely hard-edged clear despite the loss of her glasses), the ugly, lethal machine he held now quiet, Ellison's staring eyes filled with their own shock, the fusing bubbling water, each ripple visible and individual, each spark from the malfunctioning equipment a separate shooting star, a curving pellet of incandescence, each face that watched her sharply defined, each emotion

from them sensed by her. She was even aware of the teeth locked into her neck, immobile now for the rat had been shot, too, although not mortally wounded. Fear had gone as though released by the killing wounds, exorcized by the oncoming of death itself. All that remained was recognition, a fleeting insight to what was, what is, what always is; the acceptance before closedown. This, coupled with the knowledge that nothing was final.

The intense pain came, but it was brief.

Clare's eyelids covered the already fading scene as she slid down the wall into the water. Only the clinging thing, trapped by its own frozen grip, struggled feebly to rise to the surface once more.

Culver watched in dismay as the doctor disappeared, her white face devoid of expression, the hole in her cheek pumping dark red blood the only blemish.

He dived full-stretch, the impetus carrying him through the meshing currents, reaching her limp, sunken body before it had time to drift. Gathering her in his arms he heaved himself upwards, bursting through the rough surface to gasp in air, hugging her to him, his back against the wall. With horror he saw the rat still clinging to her neck, back legs kicking, raking her, and he reached for it with one hand, trying to tear it loose, incensed by its tenacity. The rat would not, or could not, release her.

In sheer rage, and in the knowledge that Clare was already dead, Culver gripped the giant rodent around the throat with both hands, squeezing as he did so, allowing the woman's body to slip back into the water, using her own weight and his strength to pull the rat from her. Flesh ripped as the creature came away, and a dripping sliver of skin dangled from its jaws. Culver spun wildly, swinging the rat's scrabbling body through the air, smashing it into the wall,

feeling rather than hearing small bones break, swinging again and again until the animal hung soft and unmoving in his hands. He threw it away from him with a cry of disgust, then bent down, feeling for Clare's body, clutching at her hair, a shoulder, pulling her to the surface again. He cradled her in his arms and examined her face, gently lifting one eyelid just to make sure, just to confirm, just to assure himself that she really was dead. The familiar coldness crept through him and he let her slip away.

He waited several moments, eyes closed, head resting against the wall, before wading back to the others, soon aware that the water had risen to a point only inches below his chest.

Fairbank had Ellison pinned up against the high wall of machinery, a hand gripped beneath the other man's chin, pushing his head back. He was shouting at Ellison, but Culver could not make out the words.

Strachan was trying to separate them both with little success. The others, Kate among them, face screwed tight with this new grief, clung to anything firm they could find - equipment, struts supporting the catwalk, doorframes, anything solid. Culver shuddered as he noticed that above them, clinging to pipes and conduits, the vermin had massed, creating a bizarre black cloud of moving bodies. Many were dropping onto the catwalk and stealthily edging their way along as if wary of the weapon that had been used against them.

Culver knew that he and the others had no choice but to leave the shelter: either the water or the vermin would soon overwhelm them if they remained. He headed for Dealey.

Dealey tried to back away when he saw the look on Culver's face, but there was nowhere to go apart from the Operations Room, which was awash with dangerous floating furniture. He made a sudden break for the ladder leading up to the catwalk and stopped when he noticed the dark moving shapes through the grillwork. A rough hand spun him round.

'Where is it, Dealey?' the pilot yelled. 'Where's the other way out?'

'Culver, above us, look, for God's sake, look!'

'I know. We haven't much time. We've got to leave right now, before it's too late!'

Dealey slipped and would have been swept away had not Culver hung onto him.

The main ventilation shaft!' the older man screeched. There's a ladder inside, rungs set in the wall!'

'Why the hell didn't you tell us before?' Culver raised an angry fist as if to strike him, but checked himself. Maybe later - if they got out. "Why did you make us go through the tunnel? You knew the bloody danger!'

We needed to know the state of the tunnels. That was our link with the other shelters.'

‘You used us, you bastard!'

'No, no. There's no way down from the shaft, you see, not from the outside! It rises to a tower above ground level and the top is sealed!'

'Christ, we could have ...'

Culver stopped. There was no sense in arguing, not now. Not with the complex flooding, the water still rising, the rats gathering overhead. 'Let's get to it.'

He looked around, saw Farraday nearby. 'I guess you knew about this too?'

The senior engineer shook his head. 'I had no cause to; maintenance wasn't my department.'

'All right. We'll round up as many people as we can, grab anything that might come in useful on the outside. You take

a couple of men and make for the sick bay, get anyone in there to the main vent shaft. Check the dormitories, the test rooms - anywhere you can - but don't take long.'

*What about the dining area and the rest room? There's bound to be people in there.'

You saw what happened to Dr Reynolds, the rats swimming in that direction. I don't think we can help them.'

Culver glanced upwards. Several black shapes were directly over their heads. 'Fairbank!' he shouted, but the engineer could not hear over the general noise and was too busy venting his fury on Ellison to notice what was happening. Culver released Dealey and pushed his way over to them. He wrenched the machine gun from Ellison's grasp, knowing little about the weapon but hoping it still had more ammunition in it. Fairbank, Ellison and Strachan watched in surprise as he raised the gun and pulled the trigger.

The effect was explosive. A hail of bullets whined off metal surfaces, smashed into the banks of machinery, scattering the black mutants, hitting many, propelling them into the air, wounding and destroying, but mainly causing panic. And a newfound respect in the vermin for the human aggressor.

Culver stopped firing, his eyes ever-watchful, and quickly told the others of Dealey's disclosure. If their circumstances had not been so critical he thought the three men would have grabbed Dealey and held him under water until he drowned. And he, Culver, might have helped.

'Collect anything you can to use as weapons!' he told them. The armoury must be flooded by now, not that we have time to reach it, anyway. Anyone you can find still carrying a gun will be an asset, so go look. Now! Get to the main shaft as quickly as you can, but try to find as many others as possible.'

We can't go looking for them!' Strachan was visibly shaking. We must get to the vent right away.'

Culver lowered the gun so that it was aimed at a point between Strachan's eyes. 'I'm just telling you to take the long way round.' He didn't shout, but his words were heard plainly enough.

We need some protection,' Ellison pleaded. 'Let me take the gun.'

Culver altered his aim. 'No chance,' he said coldly.

Strachan and Ellison saw something in the pilot's eyes that was as frightening as the danger around them; they pushed themselves back in the water, watching Culver all the time, then disappeared into a channel between equipment racks.

Fairbank regarded Culver with raised eyebrows. 'I'm with you, remember?'

Culver relaxed as much as circumstances would allow. ‘Yeah, and it's good to have you. Let's move.'

He pushed himself away from that side of the aisle, allowing the current to carry him at a slight angle towards Dealey, Kate and a small group of others who had gathered in the vicinity of the Operations Room. Fairbank followed.

Culver steadied himself by grabbing hold of the same catwalk support that Kate clung to, the arm bearing the submachine gun encircling her shoulders. She leaned against him, her eyes searching his. Her lips formed the name 'Clare' and he could only shake his head.

'Dealey!' he shouted. We need torches.'

Dealey pointed into the doorway. 'In there, on the shelves!'

At a flick of the head from Culver, Fairbank dived through, pushing away floating furniture and scanning the

shelves lining the walls for lamps, flashlights, and anything else that might be useful as a weapon. His eyes lit on something stashed away on the top of a long, fixed grey metal cabinet in a corner to his left. If a certain part could be broken off, it would make an effective weapon. He climbed onto the photocopier by the cabinet, its surface almost a foot beneath the water, and reached up.

Outside, Culver was moving the group of huddled survivors towards the passageway that would lead them to the main ventilation shaft. There were five others apart from Dealey, Kate and himself: four engineers and the caretaker. They had formed a chain across the corridor leading to the dining area and kitchen, the currents there particularly fierce as floodwater from separate sources converged.

Culver was leading, his hand gripped tightly around Kate's wrist. Behind her came the black maintenance engineer named Jackson, then Dealey. The other three engineers were spread across the open corridor, struggling to keep upright in the current, the caretaker, backed against a wall on the other side, acting as anchor man.

Culver's right elbow was bent, the gun pointing upwards. Every so often he released a round of bullets, sending the gathering vermin scurrying back into darker hiding places. But they seemed less afraid, returning to their previous positions more speedily, slinking forward in packs as if sensing their enemy's vulnerability. Culver groaned when the weapon clicked empty.

The main ventilation shaft was not far away, just along the passageway, then left towards the switching units, but he wondered if they could make it, whether it would be the rising water or the vermin that would defeat their purpose.

He breathed in acrid fumes and began to choke. Smoke spread rapidly across the ceiling and swirled downwards,

creating a thick, churning fog. Oh shiiiiit! There were other alternatives. They could also be suffocated or burned to death.

The explosion seemed to rock the very foundations of the complex and water either jumped above his head or he slipped down into it - Culver couldn't be sure which.

When his head and chest came clear again, the shelter was almost in total darkness. The red flickering glow from another part of the Exchange, a glow that moved and spread, drawing closer by the second, dimmed only by swilling smoke, reminded him that the worst could always get worse.

For Bryce, the reality was more horrendous than any nightmare he had ever known. He had come to after his sedation with the full knowledge that the disease had him. It was too soon for the full symptoms to be evident, but the dryness in his throat, the feeling of burning up inside, and the fierce headache, were the indications and the forerunners of the agony to follow. In a few days' time there would be agitation, confusion and hallucinations; then muscle spasms, stiffness of the neck and back, convulsions and perhaps even paralysis. He knew the symptoms - Civil Defence staff were made aware of them in their training - and he dreaded the inevitable pain he was promised. He would not be able to drink and the inability to swallow properly would cause him to foam at the mouth, to be mortally afraid of liquids, to be terrified of his own saliva. The fits, the madness, would eventually lead him into a coma, a pain-filled exhaustion and, mercifully, death would come soon after.

His hand was numb at the moment, but the memory of Dr Reynolds' quickly administered treatment sent fresh nausea sweeping through him.

After injecting him against the pain, she had squeezed the stumps of his fingers, encouraging them to bleed a little more. Then, using a syringe, she had forced benzalkonium, an antiseptic detergent, into the open wounds, after which,

and despite his moaning protests, she had carefully applied a small amount of nitric acid. He was weeping by the time she injected the antiserum around the wounds, and ready to collapse when a further dose was injected into a muscle in his wrist.

And he was pleading by the time she had administered the vaccination, puncturing the side of his abdomen below the ribs fourteen, fifteen, sixteen - he lost count after seventeen - times, quietly explaining to him that the treatment was absolutely vital if he were to survive, ignoring his protests which grew more desperate yet more feeble each time the needle pierced his skin, telling him that each 2ml. subcutaneous injection was an attenuated virus prepared from the brains of rabid animals - as if he really cared. When Dr Reynolds was through, Bryce really couldn't care less about anything, anyone, or himself even; he had swooned back onto the bunkbed and sunk into sweet oblivion.

To wake later, sensing the first pangs of the disease upon him (knowing it wasn't only the after-effects of drugs, or the side-effects of the antiserum, that the treatment hadn't worked, that the disease was in him, feeling it spreading, flowing with his own blood) and slowly becoming aware that something more was wrong, lying there in the subdued lighting of the sick bay with other ailing survivors, listening to the screams and shouts beyond the closed door, the strange rushing sound, the lapping of water around the cot beds inside the medical room itself. Sharp sounds that sounded like ... sounded like gunfire.

Bryce sat upright and others around him, those whose sedation allowed, did the same, all of them confused and more than just frightened. A woman shrieked as water drenched the mattress she lay upon.

Bryce pushed himself back against the wall when tiny

waves lapped over onto his blanket. He was still groggy, and for a moment the cot-filled room swung in a crazy pendulum movement. Someone splashed by his bed and he flinched as ice-cold water slapped his cheek. Other figures followed and Bryce drew in his legs, crouching there in the gloom between his own cot and the one above, shying away from the splashes as if they were droplets of boiling water.

The patients were clamouring around the closed door, pushing against each other to be first out.

Bryce sensed what was about to happen but could not form the words to warn them. He raised his mutilated hand, his eyes imploring them to stop, his mouth open with just a rasping cry, a sound too weak to be heard.

The door burst open and those clustered around it were thrown back as floodwater avalanched in.

Within seconds Bryce's shoulders were covered and he was forced to scramble from the lower bed onto the one above, while around him figures floundered and fought against the torrent. The iron-framed bunks began to shift, slowly at first, like reluctant, ponderous animals; but soon the pressure became too much and they began to tip, to scatter, to roll towards the end of the room.

Bryce was thrown from the top bunk and the impact as he plunged beneath the surface dismissed the dragging residual effects of the drug. He rose spluttering and coughing, tangled in other arms and legs, pushing against them as they pushed against him. A double bunk toppled onto him and once more he was beneath the water, choking on its brackish taste, the iron frame heavy against his chest.

At first he fought against the weight, but as he struggled a notion sifted through the terror, nudging him in a quiet, stealthy manner. Why bother to fight? the thought asked, why resist when death was inevitable?

He tried to heave the metal bed from him, its mattress floating down onto his face as if conspiring with the water to smother him.

Wasn't this a better way to die? the inner voice said slyly. Wasn't this preferable to madness and pain?

The cot rose a few inches then slumped back as though another weight had been added to it, perhaps someone climbing onto it to keep free of the flood.

One or two minutes of unpleasantness before drifting off to sleep, a sleep deeper and more peaceful than you've ever known, one that could never be interrupted, never infringed upon. Never again tainted with living.

Yes, it was good, it was desirable. But the pain now; how can I accept the pain now?

Easily. Don't resist, that's the secret, that's the way. A few bad moments and then you'll drift. You'll see.

Am I already mad? Has the disease struck so fast?

No, no, not mad. Dying so effortlessly will be the sanest thing you've ever done.

My lungs are tearing. It hurts, it hurts!

Not for long. Breathe in the water, one large swallow, then no more pain.

I can't. I'm afraid.

It's easier than you think.

Who are you?

I'm your friend. I'm you.

Will you stay with me?

Always.

For ever...

.... and ever...

... amen?...

... amen ...

The last of Bryce's air escaped in a huge, convulsive

bubble, and although he was screamingly afraid, and although his arms and his head thrashed the water, the pain, as the inner voice promised, was not for long.

Soft layers of unconsciousness began to fold over his eyes, like silky gossamer; the discomfort of not breathing relaxed and spiralled away, the anguish tapering with it. The feeling of helplessness was not so disagreeable and the suffering was beginning to subside, to torment less and less and less...

It was as the voice said: Easy.

No longer to be a refugee from the holocaust with no certain future, no longer a victim of the disease which spoiled the mind as well as the body. No grief now, little sorrow. A fading sadness. Peacefully, softly drifting. His inner voice had not lied. The weight from his chest gone. Floating. Upwards. Rising.

Upwards. Something pulling? Hurting him? Hands on him? No, not that, not now! It was settled! It was accepted! Leave meeeeeee ...

He burst through the bubbling surface, water jetting from his lungs, and tried to free himself of the hands that had yanked him from the restful peace. The choking muffled his protests as the two men held him; the pain returned, racking his muscles.

'Punch his back!' Farraday yelled. 'He's choking!'

Dazzling light blinded Bryce as he felt someone move around him. A sudden hard blow arched his back and he spluttered water and sickness over the two men. Another blow and he was retching, desperate to suck in air, involuntarily fighting for breath where just a moment ago it had been a relief to find it blissfully unnecessary.

Webber, one of the two engineers who had accompanied Farraday to the sick bay and who was now standing behind Bryce, slapped the Civil Defence officer between his shoulder-blades, using the flat of his hand this time and not his fist. Bryce's own body reaction was clearing his throat and lungs, making outside force no longer necessary.

'Looks like we got to him just in time,' Webber shouted to Farraday. The second engineer, Thomas, was helping the woman who had fallen onto the bunkbed, the added weight that had pinned Bryce to the floor. He dragged her towards the door, the deluge less violent now that the water level inside the sick bay matched the level outside. Yet it was strong enough to make them stagger and fall. Encumbered by the dead weight of the hysterical woman, Thomas flailed around in the gloom beneath the waterline, tugging at the arm that hugged his neck. He broke the hold and pushed himself upright, the woman rising with him. She clung to him, a hindrance that could drown them both. He changed his mind about rescuing her.

Thomas pushed her away with a hand around her throat, then smashed a fist into her upturned face.

Teeth broke under his knuckles and she fell away from him, sinking, a spasm of bubbles breaking the uneven, choppy surface. Aghast at what he had done but nevertheless relieved to be rid of her, Thomas headed for the door, ignoring the shouts from behind.

Farraday had witnessed the incident and he raged inside, unable to help, his own hands full with Bryce, who was sagging as though eager to drown, unwilling to help himself. To Farraday's surprise, the woman blustered to the surface just a few feet away, her eyes dazed but still pleading.

Still helping Webber keep Bryce on his feet with one hand, Farraday reached out for the woman with the other, grabbing one arm as she began to sink again, and pulling her over to him. Her head rested against his chest and she seemed momentarily calmed, as if trusting him to save her.

'Let's get out!' Farraday shouted to Webber. We can't help any more!' He called for the others to follow, hoping they would hear, averting his eyes from the rear section of the sick bay, afraid of seeing something that would compel him to wade down there and help. These two, Bryce and the woman, were enough.

They began moving towards the door, a tightly packed foursome, fighting the undertow, careful not to trip over unseen loose objects.

Bryce allowed himself to be carried along, neither helping nor hindering. His mind was in a peculiar turmoil, a jumbled mixture of regret and elation. He knew what it was to die and it wasn't so frightening.

Not actually scary at all, was it?

Perhaps just a little bit.

But infinitely better than living with excruciating pain.

Oh yes, anything was better than that.

And let's not forget the gross indignity of madness.

No, let's not forget that.

Ah, pleasant death.

Yes.

With no true oblivion.

No.

Then where are you going?

I... don't know. They're help...

Do you want to be helped? Is that what you really want? More torture? Would you welcome insanity, would you enjoy it?

I...

Would you?

Leave me alone!

But I am you, how can I leave you?

'LEAVE ME ALONE!'

'It's okay, Bryce, we've got you. There's another way out of the shelter. We can make it.'

He stared into the face of Farraday, barely recognizing the senior engineer. He tried to speak but did not know what to say.

'It's all right,' Farraday told him. 'Just try to help us, try to walk.'

He did as he was asked, closing out the distant inner voice that was no longer soothing but angry, telling him what a fool he was being.

'I don't want to die.'

'Save your breath, man.' Farraday's own breath came in short, sharp groans, the effort beginning to tell on him. We can't hear you, so don't try to speak. Conserve your energy.'

Through the open doorway, the light seemed less bright and Farraday supposed the power was fluctuating again until he noticed and smelled the rolling smoke. Thomas was standing just outside the doorway, gaping down the corridor, his damp face a mask of dread, unsteady as water surged around his chest.

By the time they themselves reached the door, Thomas was rapidly heading for the switching units, seeming to swim and wade at the same time. Farraday peered towards the source of Thomas's obvious distress, the thick billowing smoke stinging his eyes, forcing him to squint. He just had time to observe flames licking from the test room area when the complex rocked with thunder and searing white light rushed towards him, melting the protective film over his eyes, stripping the skin from his face. He fell back, carried by the blast, and water smothered his flaming hair, steam rising in a brief cloud from his burnt face. He shrieked and black water eagerly raced in, reducing the sound to a bubbling gurgle.

The others had fared no better and, to Bryce, it was just the continuation of the long nightmare. He had been partly protected by the senior engineer who stood directly in front of him and who had taken the full brunt of the explosion. Farraday's weight had been thrown against him, forcing him down, away from the flames, extinguishing the burning bandages on his mutilated hand, instantly soothing the scorching white heat that had exposed all the nerves on one side of his face, vaporizing the fire that had gristled his right ear. The water welcomed him back.

The tidal wave that followed, tightly packed into the narrow corridor, picked up all four of the burnt survivors and hurtled them along in a boiling stream, catching Thomas as it went, scraping their bodies along the walls, smashing into the machinery that finally blocked the tidal wave's path.

His neck was broken and other bones had snapped, yet Bryce could hear the voice again, homing in from a distance, soon drawing near.

Are you ready now? it asked, just a little sulkily.

He could feel himself spinning, another bone crunching somewhere in his arm as it hit something solid, and although he turned and twisted, he was not giddy, nor confused.

Have you had enough?

Oh yes.

Then breathe in the water.

I have. I'm filled with it.

A sigh. Well, not much longer.

I can still sense.

Yes, but you can't feel.

No, everything's numb.

Pleasant?

Very.

/ told you. Any fear?

A little.

It'll pass. Very soon.

Where am I going?

You'll see.

Is it nice?

No answer.

Is it nice?

Ifs different. Nice doesn't matter.

I trust you.

No answer, but this time an answer wasn't necessary.

Bryce followed the voice that no longer spoke, drifting lazily after the sound-shadow into a strange, deep void, a total absence that was all, to find that it was true: Nice did not matter. Nice didn't matter at all.

Their bodies were churned and broken as they found their own, separate deaths, each one different, individual.

Water gushed through the complex, and the fire followed at a slower, yet no less lethal pace.

Culver searched for Kate, the red glow emanating from the fire in another part of the complex his only source of light. A huge wave had just passed over them, tossing their bodies like corks on an ocean, but now the level had settled to its former roughness once again. Smoke descended as if to join forces with the floodwater in absolute destruction. He glimpsed Dealey braced against the wall, his face red but eyes white. The black engineer, Jackson, was next to him, the others gone, presumably swept back along the corridor their human chain had straddled.

'Kate!' Culver cried, afraid for her. She emerged from the dark water a few feet away from him, sweeping her head to one side to free her face and hair from the wetness. She sucked in air and immediately began to cough as acrid smoke rushed in. He plunged towards her, a hand encircling her waist, and pulled her back against the wall for support. He held her steady until the coughing had subsided, relieved that the smoke had begun to drift upwards, no longer disturbed by other forces. It was a brief respite, for he knew that the shelter would soon fill with the choking fumes, just as it might soon fill completely with floodwater.

There seemed to be hardly any energy left in Kate as she slumped against him. Her forehead nuzzled against his cheek, and she said, 'It's no use, is it, Steve? We haven't a chance.'

He was tempted to drag her over to the catwalk and climb up, to lie there and pray that the flames and smoke would die away, that the floodwater would gradually subside. That the mutant vermin would choose to ignore them.

We've got one last shot,' he told her, 'and we're going to take it.'

The shaft was their only chance.

A small ray of hope came literally from Fairbank, who shone the flashlight at them from the Operations Room doorway.

Tm coming over!' he shouted, his voice barely audible over the confusion of sounds.

Wait a minute!' Culver called back. There's a bad pull there; we'll help you across!'

'Okay! I've got a lamp as well as a waterproof flashlight. I'm going to toss it over.'

He switched on the second light and reached across the corridor as far as he could without getting caught in the treacherous currents. Culver had moved closer on the other side of the opening and caught the lamp deftly as Fairbank gently lobbed it over. He passed it back to Dealey.

'Keep it on us! Jackson, grab my arm and don't let go!'

Once he felt his upper arm gripped, Culver moved away from the relative protection of the wall. The current tugged at his legs immediately and he leaned into it, his other arm stretched towards Fairbank.

The engineer, clutching the rubber-insulated flashlight and something else in his left hand, reached out to Culver with his right. He had to make his own way for at least a foot, then their fingers curled around each other's wrists and Culver pulled as Jackson drew him in.

They caught their breath on the other side and eventually Fairbank gasped, This bloody water's getting higher.'

Culver felt the choppy surface just below his armpits. We haven't got much long—'

A scream from Kate and they turned to see the dark shapes streaming towards her lit clearly by the lamp Dealey held. There were three of them, yellow eyes just above the waterline, perhaps sensing the most vulnerable in the group, the easy prey.

Fairbank's speed was remarkable. He leapt forward, the water barely slowing his movement, torch in his left hand, the other object now transferred to his right, raised high. He brought the blade down hard and swift, decapitating the leading rat, pulling the weapon clear and striking again, catching the second rat across its back, severing the spine.

The rat squealed, the cry eerily infantile, and blood gushed from the wound in a dark fountain. The cutter was more difficult to pull free this time, but the third rat veered away as its companions sank. It found the shadows and hid itself, keening for others who had been scattered by the thundering noise and who now crouched in other places, squealing and afraid of the smoke and approaching flames. They found each other in the dark, regrouping, massing together, for their combined force was their strength.

The four men gathered around the girl, Culver tried to soothe her, the others anxious to be on their way.

"We've no time to lose, Culver,' Dealey said agitatedly, his head close to the pilot's, the lamp beam constantly moving, searching the area around them.

Curious, Culver ignored him. What the hell did you use there?' he said to Fairbank.

The engineer grinned and held his prize aloft, shining the torch onto it. 'Guillotine blade,' he announced.

The guillotine was kept close to the photocopier in the Ops Room. I managed to break off the blade.' He swished it in the air like a straight, thick-backed cutlass.

'Come on, we've no time for this!' Dealey urged.

'Link arms, like before,' Culver ordered. 'Let me have the lamp. You behind me, Dealey, Kate in the middle between you and Jackson. Fairbank, you take the rear. The idea is to all keep together.'

They moved off, aware that the smoke was becoming more dense, the water-level higher, but unaware that the rats were regrouping above them.

It wasn't long before Culver and the others found themselves inside the ventilation plant, spurred on by the threat all around, the red glow becoming a brighter orange, shadows dancing on the walls and ceiling, fiery highlights bouncing off the water's black surface. There was less smoke inside the plant room itself and the floodwater was calmer. It was quieter in there, too.

'Over there!' Dealey pointed. That's the central air duct.'

Culver's beam lit up the shaft. 'Can we get through? Isn't there machinery inside?' he asked, frowning.

'No, the plant itself is really in a building above us. That's where the filters, cooling and heating units, and humidifiers are. This is just the main shaft for circulating the air; other, smaller ducts run off from it.'

The water level was almost up to their shoulders as they waded and half-swam towards the wide shaft.

'Any ideas on how we get inside?' Culver asked, for the ventilation grille itself was not in sight. It was something they had all pushed to the back of their minds, directing their efforts on one problem at a time, unwilling to think too far ahead lest they become totally discouraged. The fact that the entry point to the ventilation shaft was under water had now

to be faced. They grouped around the shaft, bedraggled and feeling trapped. Culver tried to remember what the grille had looked like, how it was sealed.

'Is the grille screwed into the shaft, or is there a lock?' he asked Dealey.

The reply was despairing. There's a lock to give the maintenance people easy access. I don't have that particular key.'

Culver exchanged the lamp for Fairbank's insulated flashlight and plunged it down, hoping it really was waterproof. The beam glowed beneath the surface, diffused but strong enough to see by. His head and shoulders followed and he found the metal gridwork before him. He searched for the edges, his fingers running along the rim. He soon found the lock and examined it closely, the torch and his head only inches away. He rose to the surface, releasing the last of his breath and gasping in another deep lungful.

We're lucky the opening isn't screwed into the wall - I think I can break it open,' he told the others who were watching anxiously. Holding a hand out towards Fairbank, he said, 'Let me have the blade.'

The engineer handed him the makeshift weapon, realizing what he was about to do.

Noises came from outside, shouts, splashing, a frenzy of movement. They shone the lamp and the flashlight towards the door just as Strachan appeared; Ellison was close behind, and there were other figures jostling one another to get into the ventilation room. Strachan beamed his own torch in their direction and shouted with relief when he saw them.

A scream from outside changed his expression.

The men - there appeared to be no women among them - bundled through the door, some falling, tripping those behind. A flurry of activity outside increased the panic.

Culver understood what was happening and dived beneath the water, taking the guillotine blade with him. He found the grille lock and tried to insert the length of metal into the crack beside it, using the thin blade-edge. The task was too cumbersome with the torch in one hand and the metal in the other. He quickly re-surfaced and thrust the dripping flashlight into the startled Jackson's hand.

Take a deep breath and come down with me!' Culver instructed him. 'Hold the beam on the lock while I prise the grid open.'

He disappeared again and felt the long crack between door and frame with his fingers. The light appeared almost immediately and he guided Jackson's hand towards the lock. Using both his own hands, Culver slid the blade fractionally into the slit just above the lock, then worked it in, using only slight pressure to open the gap wider, pushing the metal blade in further as he did so.

When it was two or three inches inside, he used more pressure, pushing the blade at an angle towards the shaft wall, praying the metal would not snap. The gap widened, just a little. He eased the pressure, then tried again. The lock resisted and the blade quivered in the eerie, watery light. His breath was leaving him, but he knew he hadn't a second to lose; Strachan and the others had been followed and there were no prizes for guessing by what. The ventilation room would soon be overwhelmed by vermin.

A sudden greater use of force, regardless of breaking metal, and the door sprang open, its release quickly cushioned by water - so that it stood ajar just six inches or so.

Culver pulled it wide, snatched the torch from Jackson, and swam through, rising up on the other side gasping for air. And the air was so sweet.

He stood inside the shaft, pointing the beam upwards,

drawing in deep breaths of this new, fresher air. A metal ladder was set in the wall, not with separately mounted rungs as Dealey had supposed. The ladder went straight to the top, a height of some sixty or seventy feet, perhaps more; there were openings on either side, smaller shafts, metal arteries from a major vein.

Another grille obscured the top and he noticed the ladder led to a small trapdoor set in it He dropped back down into the water and slid through the opening, emerging among a ring of expectant faces on the other side.

'It's okay,' he told them. We can make it.' He handed the blade back to Fairbank and pulled Kate closer to the shaft. Take a deep breath and go straight through the opening. You'll find a ladder to your right - start climbing straight away!'

He turned to Jackson, giving him the torch. ‘You go with her and keep the light on the opening inside the shaft.'

Activity near the doorway caught his attention.

The water's surface was a churning pink foam and he realized that several of Strachan's party had been caught there, the rats dragging them down, tearing them to pieces beneath the water. These strange mutants had adapted to sewer life in a way he would not have thought possible, the foul waters, whether sluggish with slime or rushing with rainfall, holding no fears for them, just another part of their underworld environment. At least those dying men were distracting the vermin, unwillingly giving the others a chance to get clear.

'Move!' he yelled at Kate.

She vanished and Jackson quickly followed. The others in the group clustered around Culver.

'Hold it!' He raised a hand as if to ward them off. 'One at

a time or we've all had it!' He tugged at the nearest man to him. ‘You next, make it quick!'

The engineer eagerly complied.

As the next man went through, Culver saw that there were no more than a dozen left in the ventilation plant. There was no way of knowing how many others were still alive but trapped in other parts of the complex, and no time to reflect upon it. There was nothing more that he and the others could do; to attempt to rescue any more would probably prove fatal for them all.

One of the men standing on the fringe of the group suddenly cried out. His eyes showed surprise, but he kept motionless except for his head, which slowly peered down into the black water swilling just below his chin. His face abruptly creased in agony as he screamed, the cry filling the room, rebounding off the walls. He fell backwards, arms beating at the water.

Another man, close to him, shouted and lunged down. He quickly came up, his hands full with a writhing, black-furred creature. The rat's incisors snapped at the air, its frantic scrabbling too powerful for the man to contain. It fell onto his shoulder, wicked, pointed head twisting to gouge his cheek. The spurting blood drove the rodent to a new frenzy.

As the others watched dumbstruck, Dealey was already sinking below the surface, nose and breath held. He found the opening and pushed his clumsy body through.

The bastards are coming from beneath!' Fairbank held the blade high and shone the lamp down into the water. He slashed down and a murky shape below changed direction. He slashed again, keeping up a constant thrashing, more to scare off the creatures than to injure them. Blood oozed from one that was not quite swift enough.

The men were bunched together forming a rough semi-

circle, their backs to the shaft. Culver found himself next to Ellison who, like Strachan, held a flashlight.

‘Put the torches under the water,' Culver ordered. 'It might just dazzle them enough to keep them away.'

They did so and shuddered when the dim light revealed shadowy forms swimming below the waterline, like giant piranhas milling around the two men who had fallen, darting in to shake and worry their victims, backing off only when their jaws were full of ripped flesh.

Fairbank kept the lamp above the surface, afraid it would be extinguished in the water. 'Oh, Jesus...' he said as the light showed the mass of humped shapes gliding towards them.

You two - together!' Culver snapped at two engineers between Ellison and Strachan.

'I can't swim,' one of them said pleadingly.

'Move, you silly fucker!' Culver roared.

His companion pulled him down and their shapes disappeared through the opening.

'Give me the torch,' Culver said to Ellison, who looked at him suspiciously before doing so. 'Go through,' Culver told him. You too, Strachan. You can keep your light.'

The two men wasted no time in arguing. Bubbles rose where they had been standing.

Now only Culver and Fairbank remained outside the shaft. Just beyond the foaming patch where the unfortunate victims were under attack, the surface was covered almost totally, scarcely a break between them, by gliding dark humps, an army of vermin, now unhindered, streaming through the doorway like a thick, black oil slick, spreading outwards.

No words were necessary: both men swallowed air and dived.

Fairbank went through first and turned to help Culver.

The pilot was almost inside when something dragged at his ankle. He whirled beneath the water as sharp pain shot up his leg. His hands found the bottom of the frame and he pulled himself into the shaft, his right leg held back by the rat that had sunk its teeth to the bone of his ankle.

Culver kicked out with his other foot, but the water would allow no force. The blow glanced off the vermin's back.

Fairbank pulled at the leg, slicing down with the blade at the same time. The lamp, its light gone as soon as it was below the surface, had been discarded, but Culver had the presence of mind to keep his light on the creature. The blade sank into the animal's shoulder, but not deep enough to shake its grip. Fairbank tugged the leg through and drove the cutter down again into the rat's back. Inky fluid almost blinded him.

He let go of Culver's leg and pulled at the metal grille, closing it as much as the rat and Culver's foot would allow. Something heavy struck the outside and he felt a sleek body brush against his fingertips. A sudden nip made him quickly withdraw them from the meshwork.

Culver managed to get his foot below the bottom rim of the opening, the rat still clinging, its neck stretched over the strip of metal, the rest of its body outside. Even though visibility was poor, Fairbank was able to understand Culver's intention, and he struck quickly, pressing down on the flat side of the blade with one hand, slicing through the creature's spinal cord at the neck.

The rat squirmed for several seconds before becoming rigid, then limp. In desperate need for air, Fairbank helped Culver prise the teeth from his ankle. The pilot kicked the corpse back through the opening and punched out at another long snout that was wriggling its way through the narrow gap.

Surprised, the rodent backed off.

Both men pulled the grille shut, feeling the tremors as their attackers darted forward and struck the other side. They snatched their fingers free before they could be bitten off, then rose to the surface together.

A clamour of relief burst out around the shaft as they emerged and hands clapped them on the shoulders and back. The two men shielded their eyes against the glare of torches. Several rungs up on the ladder, Kate laughed and wept at the same time, hysteria close, a trembling weakness threatening to dislodge her.

Culver brought the cheering to an abrupt halt. We're not out of it yet!' he told them, the words unusually loud in the confines of the tower, noises from the shelter itself completely cut off. There's no way we can keep the grille closed, so start climbing that ladder -fast!'

He saw there were already three figures perched on the ladder, Kate being the highest He just hoped it would take all their combined weight. 'Jackson, get past Kate. You're going to have to smash a way out through the top.'

They began moving upwards, those below crowding around the foot of the ladder, anxious to be clear of the water. A bright flash from above, followed almost immediately by a deep rumbling. For a heart-stopping moment they feared the worst, another nuclear attack. But they soon realized the reverberation was thunder, the white light its precursor. They continued the journey to the top of the ladder.

Those rats are going to be in here at any second,' Fairbank muttered to Culver as they watched the others climb.

'If we just had something to keep the door tight against its frame ...'

'A belt? We could thread a thin belt through the grille,

hold it closed from this side. We wouldn't need much pressure to keep it shut.'

You want to put your hand outside to push the belt back in?'

'Not such a good idea, right?'

Strachan drew close, unscrewing the bottom of the rubber torch he held. 'Just an idea,' he said.

The light went out and Culver shone his own torch on the engineer. The tight-fitting bottom section of Strachan's flashlight came away and he held it in the palm of his hand, exposing the tough length of curled wire inside. He dropped the main section into the water.

We can shape this so it'll fit around the grille,' he said. 'It isn't strong, but maybe we can keep the grille shut long enough for all of us to climb out.'

'It's an idea,' Culver agreed. 'If we push it through near the top, one of us can stand and still hold onto it. Let me have it.'

'No, you come down with me and hold the light.' Strachan pulled the spring out, then bent it into a curve.

They took deep breaths and allowed themselves to sink. The rats outside were thumping their bodies against the grille, aware that their prey was just beyond the thin barrier. Teeth gnashed at the wire as it was threaded through.

The other end came back a few notches lower and Strachan quickly twisted it around the part still connected to the torch base. He gave the loop a testing tug then straightened, his fingers still holding on.

Culver checked the improvised lock before rising himself.

'It looks good,' he said, after taking a breath.

Yeah,' Fairbank commented. The only question is, who hangs onto it while the rest of us get clear?'

'Or how long will it take for the water to cover whoever that person is,' Culver added, noticing that Strachan was stooping to maintain the hold, his chin touching the water's surface.

‘You two go,' Strachan said. ‘Ill hold it for as long as I can.'

Culver and Fairbank glanced at each other and the latter shrugged. "Who's arguing?' he said. He offered the blade to Strachan. ‘You want this?'

'No. When I climb that ladder I want to get up fast. That thing's going to get in the way.'

'Anything you say.' Fairbank reached out for a rung, the heavy blade gripped precariously between his teeth.

*You sure?' Culver said quietly to Strachan as Fairbank climbed.

'Get going, they're getting impatient out there. I can feel the clever buggers pulling at the grille with their claws. Thank God they need air and can't keep it up for too long.'

Culver briefly clutched the engineer's shoulder as he pushed by him. 'Okay. See you up top.'

'Culver?'

The pilot turned, one hand on a rung above his head.

What the fuck are these monsters? How could they have grown like this?'

Culver shook his head. 'Maybe Dealey has more answers.' He began to climb.

Above, Jackson was pushing at a fine wire mesh that covered the top section of the shaft. It swung open easily and he went through. He found himself in a space about five feet high, louvre-type struts on either side, the roof slightly curved. Strong metal bars crossed the wire mesh from side to side, giving a firmer base to stand on. He could hear the rain outside as he listened at the opening, but could see nothing. It was strange to realize it was night time out there, for the last few weeks had been a world of constant artificial light. Kate joined him and breathed in the wonderful night air, its clean dampness so much fresher than the air inside the dark tower.

There were five separate strutted sections, each no more than a foot wide, and Jackson pushed at one, testing its strength. 'I think I can kick them out,' he said to Kate.

'Hurry then,' she replied, moving aside to give him room.

Jackson lay with his back against the metal bars and kicked with both feet. The struts he had aimed at held, but he felt them shift with the blow. A second, more concentrated kick splintered them. A third created a gap. He aimed higher next time and repeated the process.

Progress on the ladder had come to a halt, the space at the top of the shaft too confined and the mesh, despite the bars, too weak to support them all. Dealey, just behind an engineer whose head and shoulders were poking through the opening above, looked down into the well and felt nauseated. They were an awful long way up. He closed his eyes, resting his head against a ladder rung, his fists clenched tightly around the uprights. He was already wondering how they would get down on the outside.

At the bottom, Strachan strained to keep a grip on the wire loop beneath the water, twisting his head every so often to suck in a breath, the level now well past his chin. The rats outside were frantically scrabbling at the grille and several had managed to widen the gap at the lock side and were pushing their claws through, excited by the blood tingeing the water around them.

Strachan tensed even more when he felt something catch the wire loop on the other side. The loop jerked as razor-sharp teeth bit into it. It snapped.

Strachan wasted no time. He lunged for the ladder as the door began to swing away from him.

Just ahead of Ellison, who was above Fairbank and Culver, the engineer who had earlier announced that he couldn't swim clung to the ladder, his lips moving in silent prayer, eyes gazing through the rungs at the rough concrete directly in front of him, refusing to look either up or down, and wondering if he should have mentioned that he couldn't stand heights either. More brilliant light suddenly filled the upper levels of the tower, followed closely by the deep, rumbling thunder which seemed to shake the very ladder he rested on. He pressed closer to the wall. The thunder faded and a new noise caught his attention. A scraping sound.

Set in the wall beside him was a rectangular air duct, covered, as was the one now below water, with a metal grid. Beyond the grid, he assumed, were the filters to purify the air that was sucked through. The scraping seemed to be coming from inside.

He peered closer, nervous of looking but too nervous not to. He thought he heard movement inside.

Thankful that the metal grid covered the opening, he looked even closer, squinting his eyes to see into the small, regular-patterned holes.

Lightning from outside invaded the upper part of the tower again, not quite penetrating its depths, but creating enough reflected light for him to see.

It seemed that a hundred yellow-gleaming eyes were staring out at him, black, hump-shaped bodies crammed into the tiny space behind them. As one, they leapt forward, crashing into the grid and rattling the metal in its mounting.

The engineer howled in fright, reflexively backing away. His foot slipped from the rung, his hands lost their grip. He fell outwards, his cry continuing to a higher pitch, ending only when he plunged into the murky waters below.

Strachan felt, rather than saw, the descending body. He squeezed against the ladder, shoulders hunched and body tensed. A foot caught him a heavy blow on his scalp and he went down, only his tight hold on a rung saving him from falling to his knees.

He felt movement around his legs, smooth bodies bumping against them. The small, confined chamber abruptly exploded into a violent, thrashing cauldron of motion and sounds. The fallen engineer's gurgled shrieks merged with the high-pitched squealing of rats.

Strachan tried to heave himself upwards, but something held his leg. Teeth punctured his thigh.

He pulled, using all his strength, mouth open wide but only a thin, keening sound emerging. He began to rise and then another weight attached itself to his lower body. The pointed jaws closed on the loose parts below his groin and, as he rose, inch by inch, he could feel them tearing away, a fraction at a time, tendons and blood vessels stretching, separating, bleeding. He moaned at the men above to help.

Fairbank had tried to grab at the man who had fallen from just above him and in the process had lost the precious blade. He studied the seething foam below with consternation, blood spurting from the froth in scarlet geysers.

Culver looked down into Strachan's wide, pleading eyes, the pupils completely surrounded by whiteness. The engineer was screaming, the sound too soft to be heard over the clamour. One hand gripped a rung while the other reached towards Culver, fingers outstretched and twitching, a gesture of entreaty.

Culver started to descend, ignoring Fairbank's warning not to.

Strachan sank lower, forcing Culver to climb down further.

He crouched on the ladder, legs bent, clinging with one hand and reaching for Strachan with the other.

Their fingertips touched and slipped into each other's palms. They gripped.

A rat, seeming to grin as it emerged from the water behind the engineer's shoulder, sped up Strachan's arm and onto Culver's as though their joined hands were nothing more than a ship's mooring chain. It was on Culver's shoulder before he had a chance to react.

By instinct alone, he had turned his head away as the mutant reached him. Teeth sliced through his ear and cut into his temple. He cried out as he let go of Strachan, pushing against the rat's underbelly, lifting it clear and throwing the animal away from him in one swift movement.

The rat twisted in the air, emitting its strange infant cry before it splashed back into the disturbed water.

Strachan's shoulders were almost under the surface when, with a supreme effort, he hauled himself clear again.

Culver felt faint when he saw the mass of black, feeding shapes covering the engineer's back, torso and lower limbs. The water was red beneath him.

It seemed that Strachan was almost smiling as he dragged himself upwards, but the smile became frozen, the eyes resumed their fearful stare, as he realized there was no hope for him. He began to slide down again, the weight of the vermin dragging him back into the glutinous, heaving throng.

His shoulders went under. His chin. His face turned upwards just before he sank. His eyes remained open as water covered them. His mouth did not close as water rushed into it. His face became a white blur beneath the surface, a pale, screaming ghost. It faded in a cloud of deep vermilion.

A hand clutched Culver's shoulder and his head jerked around.

There was nothing you could do,' Fairbank said. 'Now let's get going before they come after us.'

Culver nodded after the briefest of pauses, and both men resumed their ascent, soaked boots constantly slipping on the already wet iron rungs. As they passed a duct set in the wall by the ladder they heard scuffling sounds, and something pressed from behind the grid, scratching furiously to get at the climbing men. Fairbank spat into the opening. Culver could not take his eyes away, but nevertheless kept moving.

Lightning flashed just before Culver climbed through the trapdoor in the wire mesh at the top. He looked down into the deep well, the thrashing sounds still loud, spiralling up the shaft with the squealing, the shrill cries of the mutant vermin.

He closed the opening on the unholy place as if it were the gateway from hell itself. The creatures would climb the ladder, but not before they had finished their underwater feast.

Thunder boomed again as he crawled to the narrow opening in the tower where Fairbank waited. He looked out into the driving rain, seeing nothing else because of it, only the lights shining upwards from below.

Lightning flashed and he was able to see that the buildings had collapsed all around the ventilation shaft, and their bulk had protected the tower from the blast. The tower itself was contained in some kind of stockade, the walls mostly broken now and covered in debris. The rubble was just twelve or thirteen feet below, an easy drop.

He nodded to Fairbank to go first, the night shuddering with thunder, and the engineer grinned, his expression just visible in the shining beams from outside. Fairbank clung to the sill for a moment before releasing his grip.

Culver watched as lightning forked the sky, a lightning the like of which he had never before seen, for it streaked the blackness in five different places simultaneously, the landscape of destruction frozen in monochrome. Electricity charged the air, yet it was vibrant, infinitely preferable to the dank decay beneath him.

He slid from the edge and dropped out into the dark, rain-filled night.

Three: Domain

The black creatures moved easily through the ruins, seeking human prey, a keen, feverish excitement running through them in the knowledge that food was abundant and easily obtained. They sensed their victims' helplessness and showed no mercy; man, woman and child falling to their slashing teeth and claws, weakened bodies finding little strength against the vermin's vicious might. Even the new-formed communities afforded the survivors little protection against the sudden and overwhelming attacks, for the rats were instinctively aware of the shift in power, the balance so abruptly and unexpectedly in their favour. They had found a huge source of food near the Mother nest, a warm, living supply that had sustained them for many days and nights; but as that flesh had putrified the vermin had sought fresher nourishment, meat that was still moist, succulent with juices, filled with blood that had not dried solid, and inside the skulls, the saporous organ that had not yet been liquefied to slimy pulp by death's decay. The vermin grew bolder in their seeking, more daring in their gluttonous fervour, still preferring the night but less timid of the daylight hours. They ruled the lesser rodents, their cunning and strength so much greater than that of their inferior kin; and they in turn were ruled by others: strange, obscene creatures that skulked in the darkness below, that slithered on gross, misshapen bodies among bones and rotted corpses, communicating in high-pitched mewling,

protected and fed by the giant Black rats, mutants among mutants, the grotesque among the hideous.

Weaker than their sleek Black army yet dominating them, feared and favoured, obeyed and exalted as though they held some progenitive secret within their ill-formed shapes, these monsters quivered with a new excitement, an expectancy; sluggish bodies restless, deformed limbs and snouts occasionally thrashing the filthy earth they existed in, the mewling noise reaching a frantic peak before slowly subsiding, finally abating.

They would look towards afar corner of the inner chamber within the dark underworld they inhabited, many of them with sightless eyes or no eyes at all, and the fervour would build inside them for long moments, dissipating gradually, sinking but not fading completely.

They waited and received the thoughts of the Mother Creature, sensing its anguish, feeling its pain.

They waited and, in their way, they rejoiced.

The cold water trickled to a halt and the woman clucked her tongue. She twisted the tap off and placed the meagrely filled kettle on the electric stove. She left it to boil on the stone-cold ring.

Walking through to the hallway, the woman picked up the telephone receiver and flicked open the book lying beside it on the narrow hallstand. She found a number and dialled.

'I've already complained twice,' she said into the mouthpiece. 'Now the water's gone off completely.

Why should I pay my water rates when I can't have bloody water?'

She flushed, angry with herself and the noiseless receiver. "You've made me swear now, that's how angry I am,' she said. 'Don't give me any more excuses, I want someone round today to sort it out, otherwise I shall have to speak to your supervisor.'

Silence.

"What's that you say? You'll have to speak up.'

The phone remained dead.

Tes, well that's more like it. And I'll have you remember that civility costs nothing. I'll expect your man later this morning, then?'

The earpiece could have been a sea-shell for all the noise it made.

'Right, thank you, and I hope it isn't necessary to call again.'

The woman allowed herself a humph of satisfaction as she replaced the receiver.

'I don't know what this country's coming to,' she said, pulling her unkempt cardigan tight around her as a breeze -a warm breeze - flowed down from the stairway. She went back into the kitchen.

As she rinsed the teapot with water from the cold kettle, the woman complained to her husband seated at the pine kitchen table, newspaper propped up against the empty milk bottle before him. A fly, its body thick and black and as big as a bee, landed on the man's cheek and trekked across the pallid landscape.

The man ignored it.

'... not even as though water's cheap nowadays,' his wife droned. We have to pay the rates even when it's off. Should never have been allowed to split from normal rates - it was just their way of bumping up prices. Like everything else, I suppose. Money, money, it rules everything. I dread doing the monthly shop. God knows how much everything's gone up since last time. Afraid you'll have to give me more housekeeping soon, Barry. Yes, I know, but I'm sorry. If you want to eat the way you're used to, you'll have to give me more.'

She stirred the tea and quickly sucked her finger when cold water splashed and burned it. Putting the lid on the teapot, she took it over to the kitchen table and sat opposite her husband.

Tina, are you going to eat those cornflakes or just sit and stare at them all day?'

Her daughter did not even shrug.

You'll be late for playschool again if you don't get a move on. And how many times have I told you Cindy isn't allowed

at the table. You spend more time speaking to that doll than you do eating.'

She scooped up the dolly that she herself had placed in her daughter's lap only minutes before, and propped it up on the floor against a table leg. Tina began to slide off her chair.

The mother jumped up and pulled the child erect again, tutting as she did so. Tina's small chin rested against her chest and the woman tried vainly to lift it.

'All right, you go ahead and sulk, see where it gets you.'

A small creature with many eyelash legs stirred from its nest in the little girl's ear. It crawled out and scuttled into the dry white hair of the child's scalp.

The woman poured the tea, the water almost colourless, black specks that were the unbrewed tea leaves collecting in the strainer to form a soggy mould. Silverfish scattered from beneath the milk jug as she lifted it and unsuccessfully tried to pour the dots of sour cream into the cups.

'Sammy, you stop that clattering and finish your toast. And will you put your school tie on straight; how many more times do I have to tell you? At ten years of age you think you'd be old enough to dress yourself properly.'

Her son silently gazed at the green bread beside his bowl of cornflakes, the cereal stirring gently as small creatures fed beneath. He was grinning, a ventriloquist's dummy, cheek muscles tightened by shrinkage. A misty film clouded his eyes, a spoon balanced ungripped in his clawed hand. A length of string around his chest tied him to the chair.

The woman suddenly heaved forward, twisting her chair so that the ejected vomit did not splatter the stale food. She retched, the pain seeming to gut her insides, her stomach jerking in violent spasms as if attempting to evict its own internal organs.

The excruciating pain was in her head too, and for a brief

second it forced a flash of lucidity. The moment of boundless thunder, the quietness after. The creeping sickness.

It was gone, the clearness vanquished, muddy clouds spoiling her mind's fleeting perspicuity. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and sat upright. The hurt was easing, but she knew it would linger in the background, never far away, waiting to pounce like Inspector Clouseau's Chinese manservant. She almost managed to smile at the memory of old, better times, but the present - her own vision of the present - closed in on her.

She sipped the tasteless tea and flicked with an impatient hand at the flies buzzing around Tina's head.

Her husband's pupil-less stare from the other side of the table irritated her, too, the whites of his eyes showing between half-closed lids a silly affectation he assumed to annoy her. A joke could be taken too far.

'What shall we do this morning, everyone?' she asked, forgetting it was both a work- and school-day.

'A walk to the park? The rain's finally stopped, you know. My goodness, I thought it never would, didn't you, Barry? Must do some shopping later, but I think we could manage a little walk first, take advantage of the weather, hmm? What do you say, Sammy? You could take your roller skates. Yes, you too, Tina, I wasn't forgetting you. Perhaps the cinema later. No, don't get excited -1 want you to finish your breakfast first.'

She leaned across and patted her daughter's little clenched fist.

'It'll be just like old times, won't it?' Her voice became a whisper, and the words were slow. 'Just like old times.'

Tina slid down in her chair once more and this time disappeared beneath the table.

That's right, dear, you look for Cindy, she can come to the park, too. Anything interesting in the news today, Barry?

Really, oh good gracious, people are funny, aren't they? Makes you wonder what the world's coming to, just what on earth you'll read next. Manners, Samuel, hand before mouth.'

She scraped away surface mould from a drooping slice of bread and bit into it 'Don't let your tea get cold, pet,' she lightly scolded her husband, Barry. "You've got all day to read the newspaper. I think I'll have a lie down in a little while; I'm not feeling too well today. Think I've got flu coming on.'

The woman glanced towards the shattered window, a warm breeze ruffling the thin hair straggling over her forehead. She saw but did not perceive the nuclear-wasted city outside.

Her attention drifted back to her family once more and she watched the black fly, which had fully explored the surface of her husband's face by now, disappearing into the gaping hole of his mouth.

She frowned, and then she sighed. 'Oh, Barry,' she said, 'you're not just going to sit there all day again, are you?'

Tiny, glittering tear beads formed in the corners of each eye, one brimming over leaving a jerky silver trail down to her chin. Her family didn't even notice.

They had laughed at him, but who had the last laugh now? Who had survived, who had lived in comfort, confining though it might be, while others had died in agony? Who had foreseen the holocaust years before the Middle-East situation finally bubbled over to world conflict? Maurice Joseph Kelp, that's who.

Maurice J. Kelp, the insurance agent (who knew better about future-risk?).

Maurice Kelp, the divorcee (no one else to worry about).

Maurice, the loner (no company was more enjoyable than his own).

He had dug the hole in his back garden in Peckham five years ago, much to the derision of his neighbours (who was laughing now, eh? Eh?), big enough to accommodate a large-sized shelter (room enough for four actually, but who wanted other bodies fouling his air, thank you very much). Refinements had been saved for and fitted during those five years, the shelter itself, in kit form, costing nearly £3,000.

Accessories such as the hand- and battery-operated filtration unit (£350 second-hand) and the personal radiation-measuring meter (£145 plus £21.75 VAT) had swollen the costs, and fitted extras like the fold-away wash basin and the own-flush toilet had not been cheap. Worth it though, worth every penny.

The prefabricated steel sections had been easy to assemble and the concrete filling-in had been simple enough, once he had read the instruction book carefully. Even fitting the filter and exhaust units had not proved too difficult, when he had fully comprehended what he was supposed to be doing, and the shelter duct connections had proved to be no problem at all. He had also purchased a cheap bilge pump, but mercifully had had no reason to use it. Inside he had installed a bunkbed with foam mattress, a table (the bed was his chair), a heater and Grillogaz cooker, butane gas and battery operated lamps, storage racks filled with tinned and bottled food, dried food, powdered milk, sugar, salt - in all, enough to last him two months. He had a radio with spare batteries (although once below he'd only received crackling noises from it), a medical kit, cleaning utensils, an ample supply of books and magazines (no girlie stuff - he didn't approve of that sort of thing), pencils and paper (including a good stock of toilet paper), strong disinfectants, cutlery, crockery, tin

opener, bottle opener, saucepans, candles, clothing, bedding, two clocks (the ticking had nearly driven him crackers for the first few days - he didn't even notice it now), a calendar, and a twelve-gallon drum of water (the water never used for washing dishes, cutlery, or drinking, without his Milton and Mow's Simpla sterilizing tablets).

And oh yes, one more recent acquisition, a dead cat.

Just how the wretched animal had got into his tightly-sealed shelter he had no way of knowing (the cat wasn't talking), but he guessed it must have crept in there a few days before the bombs had dropped.

Rising tension in world affairs had been enough to spur Maurice into final preparations stage (as four or five similar crises had since he'd owned the shelter) and the nosy creature must have sniffed its way in as he, Maurice, had scurried back and forth from house to shelter, leaving open the conning-tower hatch (the structure was shaped like a submarine with the conning-tower entrance at one end rather than in the middle). He hadn't discovered the cat until the morning after the holocaust.

Maurice remembered the doomsday vividly, the nightmare impressed onto the back of his brain like a finely detailed mural. God, how frightened he'd been! But then, how smug afterwards.

The months of digging, assembling, equipping - enduring the taunts of his neighbours! - had paid off.

'Maurice's Ark' they had laughingly called it, and now he realized how apt that description was. Except, of course, it hadn't been built for bloody animals.

He sat bolt upright on the bunkbed, nauseated by the foul smell, but desperate to draw in the thinning air. His face was pale in the glare of the gas lamp.

How many would be alive out there? How many neighbours

had died not laughing? Always a loner, would he now be truly alone? Surprisingly, he hoped not.

Maurice could have let some of them in to share his refuge, perhaps just one or two, but the pleasure of closing the hatch in their panic-stricken faces was too good to resist. With the clunking of the rotary locking mechanism and the hatch airtight-sealed against the ring on the outside flange of the conning tower, the rising and falling sirens had become a barely heard wailing, the sound of his neighbours banging on the entrance lid just the muffled tapping of insects. The booming, shaking, of the earth had soon put a stop to that.

Maurice had fallen to the floor clutching the blankets he had brought in with him, sure that the thunderous pressure would split the metal shell wide open. He lost count of how many times the earth had rumbled and, though he could not quite remember, he felt perhaps he had fainted. Hours seemed to have been lost somewhere, for the next thing he remembered was awaking on the bunkbed, terrified by the heavy weight on his chest and the warm, fetid breath on his face.

He had screamed and the weight was suddenly gone, leaving only a sharp pain across one shoulder. It took long, disorientated minutes to scrabble around for a torch, the absolute darkness pressing against him like heavy drapes, only his imagination illuminating the interior and filling it with sharp-taloned demons. The searching torch beam discovered nothing, but the saturating lamp-light moments later revealed the sole demon. The ginger cat had peered out at him from beneath the bed with suspicious yellow eyes.

Maurice had never liked felines at the best of times, and they, in truth, had never cared much for him.

Perhaps now, at the worst of times (for those up there, anyway), he should learn to get along with them.

'Here, moggy,' he had half-heartedly coaxed. 'Nothing to be afraid of, old son or old girl, whatever you are.' It was a few days before he discovered it was 'old girl'.

The cat refused to budge. It hadn't liked the thundering and trembling of this room and it didn't like the odour of this man. It hissed a warning and the man's sideways head disappeared from view. Only the smell of food a few hours later drew the animal from cover.

'Oh, yes, typical that is,' Maurice told it in chastising tones. 'Cats and dogs are always around when they can sniff grub.'

The cat, who had been trapped in the underground chamber for three days without food or water or even a mouse to nibble at, felt obliged to agree. Nevertheless, she kept at a safe distance from the man.

Maurice, absorbed more by this situation than the one above, tossed a chunk of tinned stewed meat towards the cat, who started back, momentarily alarmed, before pouncing and gobbling.

Tes, your belly's overcome your fright, hasn't it?' Maurice shook his head, his smile sneering. 'Phyllis used to be the same, but with her it was readies,' he told the wolfing, disinterested cat, referring to his ex-wife who had left him fifteen years before after only eighteen months of marriage. 'Soon as the pound notes were breathing fresh air she was buzzing round like a fly over a turd. Never stayed long once the coffers were empty, I can tell you. Screwed every last penny out of me, the bloody bitch. Got her deserts now, just like the rest of them.' His laugh was forced, for he still did not know how secure he was himself.

Maurice tipped half the meat into a saucepan on the gas burner. 'Have the rest later tonight,' he said, not sure if he was talking to the cat or himself. Next he opened a small can of beans and mixed the contents in with the cooking meat.

‘Funny how hungry a holocaust can make you.' His laughter was still nervous and the cat looked at him quizzically. 'All right, I suppose you'll have to be fed. I can't put you out, that's for sure.'

Maurice smiled at his own continued black humour. So far he was handling the annihilation of the human race pretty well.

'Let's see, we'll have to find you your own dinner bowl. And something for you to do your business in, of course. I can dispose of it easily enough, as long as you keep it in the same place. Haven't I seen you before somewhere? I think you belonged to the coloured lady two doors along. Well, she won't be looking for you any more. It's quite cosy down here, don't you think? I may as well just call you Mog, eh? Looks like we're going to have to put up with each other for a while ...'

And so Maurice J. Kelp and Mog had teamed up to wait out the holocaust.

By the end of the first week, the animal had ceased her restless prowling.

By the end of the second week, Maurice had grown quite fond of her.

By the end of the third week, though, the strain had begun to tell. Mog, like Phyllis, found Maurice a little tough to live with.

Maybe it was his weak but sick jokes. Maybe it was his constant nagging. It could have been his bad breath. Whatever, the cat spent a lot of time just staring at Maurice and a considerable amount of time avoiding his stifling embrace.

Maurice soon began to resent the avoidance, unable to understand why the cat was so ungrateful. He had fed her, given her a home! Saved her life! Yet she prowled the refuge like some captive creature, shrinking beneath the bunkbed,

staring out at him with baleful distrusting eyes as if ... as if ... yes, as if he were going mad. The look was somehow familiar, in some way reminding him of how ... of how Phyllis used to stare at him. And not only that, the cat was getting sneaky. Maurice had been awakened in the dead of night more than once by the sound of the cat mooching among the food supplies, biting its way into the dried food packets, clawing through the cling-film-capped half-full tins of food.

The last time Maurice had really flipped, really lost control. He had kicked the cat and received a four-lane scratch along his shin in return. If his mood had been different, Maurice might have admired the nimble way Mog had dodged the missiles directed at her (a saucepan, canned fruit - the portable own-flush loo).

The cat had never been the same after that. It had crouched in corners, snarling and hissing at him, slinking around the scant furniture, skulking beneath the bunkbed, never using the plastic litter tray that Maurice had so thoughtfully provided, as though it might be trapped in that particular corner and bludgeoned to death. Or worse.

Soon after, while Maurice was sleeping, Mog had gone onto the offensive.

Unlike the first time when he had awoken to find the cat squatting on his chest, Maurice awoke to find fierce claws sinking into his face and Mog spitting saliva at him, hissing in a most terrifying manner. With a screech, Maurice had tossed the manic animal away from him, but Mog had immediately returned to the attack, body arched and puffed up by stiffened fur.

A claw had come dangerously close to gouging out one of Maurice's eyes and an earlobe had been bitten before he could force the animal away from him again.

They had faced each other from separate ends of the bed, Maurice cringing on the floor, fingers pressed against his deeply gashed forehead and cheek (he hadn't yet realized part of his ear was missing), the cat perched on the bedclothes, hunch-backed and snarling, eyes gleaming a nasty yellow.

She came for Maurice again, a streaking ginger blur, a fury of fur, all fangs and sharp-pointed nails. He raised the blankets just in time to catch the cat and screeched as the material tore. Maurice ran when he should have used the restraining bedcovers to his advantage; unfortunately, the area for escape was limited. He climbed the small ladder to the conning tower and crouched at the top (the height was no more than eight feet from hatch to floor), legs drawn up and head ducked against the metal lid itself.

Mog followed and claws dug into Maurice's exposed buttocks. He howled.

Maurice fell, not because of the pain, but because something crashed to the ground above them, causing a vibration of seismic proportions to stagger the steel panels of the bunker. He fell and the cat, still clutching his rear end, fell with him. It squealed briefly as its back was broken.

Maurice, still thinking that the wriggling animal was on the attack, quickly picked himself up and staggered towards the other end of the bunker, wheezing air as he went. He scooped up the saucepan from the Grillogaz to defend himself with and looked in open-mouthed surprise at the writhing cat. With a whoop of glee Maurice snatched up the bedcovers and raced back to the helpless creature. He smothered Mog and thrashed her body with the saucepan until the animal no longer moved and tiny squeals no longer came from beneath the blankets. Then he picked up a flat-bottomed cylinder of, butane gas, using both hands to lift it, and dropped it on a bump where he imagined Mog's head to be.

Finally, he sat on the bed, chest heaving, blood running from his wounds, and giggled at his triumph.

Then he had to live with the decomposing body for another week.

Not even a triple layer of tightly-sealed polythene bags, the insides liberally dosed with disinfectant, could contain the smell, and not even the chemicals inside the Porta Potti toilet could eat away the carcase. In three days the stench was unbearable; Mog had found her own revenge.

And something else was happening to the air inside the shelter. It was definitely becoming harder to breathe and it wasn't only due to the heavy cat odour. The air was definitely becoming thinner by the day, and lately, by the hour.

Maurice had intended to stay inside for at least six weeks, perhaps eight if he could bear it, all-clear sirens or not; now, with no more than four weeks gone, he knew he would have to risk the outside world. Something had clogged the ventilation system. No matter how long he turned the handle of the Microflow Survivaire equipment for, or kept the motor running from the twelve-volt car battery, the air was not replenished. His throat made a thin wheezing noise as he sucked in, and the stink cloyed at his nostrils as if he were immersed in the deepest, foulest sewer. He had to have good, clean air, radiation-packed or not; otherwise he would die a different sort of slow death. Asphyxiation accompanied by the mocking smell of the dead cat was no way to go. Besides, some pamphlets said fourteen days was enough for fallout to have dispersed.

Maurice rose from the bed and clutched at the small table, immediately dizzy. The harsh white glare from the

butane gas lamp stung his red-rimmed eyes. Afraid to breathe and more afraid not to, he staggered towards the conning tower. It took all his strength to climb the few rungs of the ladder and he rested just beneath the hatch, head swimming, barely inflated lungs protesting. Several moments passed before he was able to raise an arm and jerk open the locking mechanism.

Thank God, he thought. Thank God I'm getting out, away from the evil sodding ginger cat. No matter what it's like out there, no matter who or what else has survived, it would be a blessed relief from this bloody stinking shithouse.

He allowed the hatch to swing down on its hinge. Powdered dust covered his head and shoulders, and when he had blinked away the tiny grains from his eyes, he uttered a weak cry of dismay. He now understood the cause of the crash just a week before: the remains of a nearby building, undoubtedly his own house, had finally collapsed. And the rabble had covered the ground above him, blocking his air supply, obstructing his escape exit.

His fingers tried to dig into the concrete slab, but hardly marked the surface. He pushed, he heaved, but nothing shifted. Maurice almost collapsed down the ladder, barely able to keep his feet at the bottom.

He wailed as he stumbled around the bunker looking for implements to cut through the solid wall above, the sound rasping and faint. He used knives, forks, anything with a sharp point to hammer at the concrete, all to no avail, for the concrete was too strong and his efforts too weak.

He finally banged dazedly at the blockage with a bloodied fist.

Maurice fell back into what was now a pit and howled his frustration. Only the howl was more like a wheeze, the kind a cat might make when choking.

The plastic-covered bundle at the far end of the shelter did not move but Maurice, tears forcing rivulets through the dust on his face, was sure he heard a faint, derisory meow.

'Never liked cats,' he panted. 'Never.'

Maurice sucked his knuckles, tasting his own blood, and waited in his private, self-built tomb. It was only a short time to wait before shadows crept in his vision and his lungs became flat and still, but it seemed an eternity to Maurice. A lonely eternity, even though Mog was there to keep him company.

They thought they would be safe in the vast sunken chamber which had once been the banqueting hall of the hotel close to the river. They could almost feel the pressure of thousands of tons of concrete and rubble above them, bearing down, threatening to break through the ceiling and crush them. By rights, that should have happened when the first bomb had dropped, but because of some quirk in the building's structure, or perhaps because of the way the mighty building had toppled, the ceiling had held. The great chandeliers had fallen, impregnating those early diners seated below with a million shards of fine glass; and most of the huge mirrors had tumbled or cracked. Parts of the ceiling had collapsed, rubble descending in grinding, crushing avalanches, the openings soon sealed by more debris from above. Most of the hall's stout pillars had withstood the pressure.

Darkness followed within seconds, and the rumbling, the shifting of the earth itself, continued. As did the screams, the cries for help, the sighing moans of the mortally injured. When the city's death rattle terminated, the other sounds went on.

Those in the banqueting hall who had survived the

eruption, or who had not been knocked senseless by falling masonry and glass or rendered immobile by shock, cowered on the floor, many beneath tables and chairs, others against pillars. A strange calmness fell upon them, a still numbness not uncommon in times of massive disaster, and those who could crawled towards the helpless injured, drawn by whimpers and pleading, lighters and matches were lit. A waiter found candles and placed them around the devastated dining hall; there was no romance in their glow, just a dim appraisal of human and material damage.

It did not take long to discover there was no apparent escape route from the hall: all exits had been blocked by rubble and there were no outside windows. There was access to the kitchens and, mercifully for many, to the bar, but no exit from them. The dining hall and its smaller annexes were buried beneath thousands of tons of rubble. They were trapped, the price paid for not heeding the warning sirens and fleeing with those less composed than themselves. Most of those not transfixed by sheer funk had realized that if nuclear warheads really were about to fall, then there was virtually nowhere in the capital that could be deemed safe. It would be better to take the last sip of wine, to taste the last expensive morsel of food, in elegant surroundings, and with grace. For just a few, even conversation continued in a light vein.

The blast and its consequences had dispelled all such fanciful affectations.

Cut and bruised, dazed and fearful, those who could examined the candlelit stronghold around them.

For some it came to represent an impregnable shelter where they could wait until rescue came, sustained by a carefully rationed food supply from the kitchens, heartened by the ample stock of alcohol from the bar; for others, more pessimistic, it represented a vast inescapable prison.

They learned to live a frugal existence, caring for the injured, endeavouring to ease the way for the dying. Corpses were wrapped in tablecloths and deposited, after all drink was removed, inside the bar area, the double doors tightly sealed afterwards. It was decided that no tunnelling through the debris would be attempted until at least two or three weeks had passed, for only radiation fallout would welcome their release. They knew that precious air was seeping down to them, for the candle flames were strong even days after the explosion, and often stirred with secretive breezes. And when water began to trickle through the debris and they guessed it to be rainwater from outside, they knew there were gaps that could be followed and widened by rescue teams with correct equipment.

So they waited in their newfound community where title held little authority, wealth had no use, and the shared ambition was to survive; a thrown-together cooperative with no social and soon no moral barriers

- although as to the sexual aspect of the latter, some discretion was still practised: such encounters, enhanced by Death's skeletal shoulder-tapping, were undertaken in the more remote and darker nooks of the dining hall. Dysentery became rife, despite precautions, and claimed several lives; food poisoning (not to mention alcoholic poisoning) almost took more; infected wounds led to fevers; and suicides reduced their numbers by four. When nobody came to rescue the survivors after three weeks, anxiety mounted. At the end of the fourth, with supplies rapidly depleting, carefully rationed candles running low, and the floor awash with water, it was decided an attempt on their own part to reach the outside had to be made. A tunnel was to be dug.

The stronger of the men collected any tools they could find to dig with - broken table legs, long carving knives,

even heavy soup ladles - and selected a point where the water appeared to flow more forcefully than others. They cleared what they could with bare hands, then struck at the more resisting blockages with their implements. They were soon forced to try elsewhere, the barrier before them too solid, and then had to abandon the next 'dig' when more debris than they had displaced collapsed in on them. More headway was made with their third attempt.

The earlier tunnels had been tried near the wide entrances to the dining hall; the latest one was where a section of ceiling had caved in, leaving a barely noticeable fissure. The gap was swiftly widened and, although the earth was damp, no water ran from it. The first man, who used to be a waiter in the once renowned and rather grand hotel squeezed through, pushing a candle before him. It was claustrophobic, but then their very existence had been so over the past month. He pressed on, digging at the rubble with a short-bladed butcher's chopper scavenged from the kitchen. Shouts of encouragement came from behind and he grinned in the gloom, sweat already clogging the dust that settled on his bare arms and shoulders. His enthusiasm almost caused another fall and he forced himself to be more patient when the danger had passed.

He stopped again when he heard something ahead of him. He listened, sure it was not from behind, the sound of others following his path. Perhaps he had been wrong, for now he heard nothing. He began to dig again, pulling brickwork away and burrowing through powdered rubble. Then he was certain he heard noises from ahead.

He called for his companions to be quiet and he waited there. The scraping noise did not seem too far away.

The ex-waiter gave a gargled whoop of joy and shouted back to the others that he was sure rescuers were on the

way, digging to meet them, obviously careful not to disturb the debris too much with their digging machines lest more danger was created.

He called out, and the others behind called with him. There was no reply except a scratching sound. He frowned. Now it sounded like ... like ... gnawing.

Scraping, slithering. Definite movement. He pushed forward.

Presently he came to another blockage and he almost wept with frustration. But then, no, he saw it was only wood, a partition, a screen or perhaps the back of a fallen wardrobe amid the jumble of masonry and rubble. He could see only a small section of the blockage, for it was framed by the rough tunnel itself.

He heard more scratching and wondered why the rescuers did not just punch a hole through the wood.

He called out again and the noise stopped.

He spoke eagerly and the scratching resumed and the wood bulged, only there was no comfort in the sound this time, for it was not human digging, it was more like the sound of claws scrabbling to break through and that high-pitched squealing was not human, but was the sound of animals, animals with sharp, scratching claws and with enough strength to push the wood inwards, to make it bulge and crack and ...

He began to back away and the man behind wondered what he was playing at, cursing the shoes that scuffed his face, the others behind him demanding to know what was going on.

The ex-waiter found he could retreat no further, that the next man was blocking his retreat. He stared beyond the candleflame at the cracking wood, a slow scream beginning.

A sliver of wood broke inwards with a crack. A talon-like claw gripped the edge of the newly formed hole. More

splinters fell away. A long pointed snout appeared and yellow teeth gnawed a bigger opening. The rat's head and gleaming eyes were the most heart-wrenching manifestation of evil he had ever seen.

His scream escaped as the rat pushed through and closed the short distance between them with a swift, scuttling movement. The light vanished as the candle was dropped and he could only feel the creature eating into his face, his hands useless against the thick, hairy body.

The vermin had known there were humans close by, their keen sense of smell, their acute instincts, attracted by the distinct aroma of living flesh and human excrement. The digging noises had alerted them and given direction.

They poured through the opening, some eating their way through the body of the first man, others tunnelling their way around him, finding more humans, aroused to an intense frenzy by their own bloodlust. They swept along the tunnel, killing and feeding until they reached the huge cavern where the people waited.

The survivors tried to hide in the darkest corners of the dining hall as the black hordes swept down. At first they did not understand what these creatures were, seeing only a flowing devil's spawn, an invasion of demonic beasts, perhaps returning to their hell's womb in which they, the survivors, had been incarcerated. The desperate screams of the tunnel-lers had forewarned of the irruption, petrifying the people in the dimly lit hall. They scattered and hid as the dark beasts scampered through the narrow opening and descended the rubbled slope, their traumatized minds unable to cope with this new nightmare, to recognize the demons for what they were. The fear would have been no less if they had.

Only when their very flesh was being shredded by flailing teeth and claws did they fully realize that vermin were to be

their final adversity, not radiation poisoning, not disease, not hunger and not despair. They hid, but the rats sought them out; they barricaded themselves behind upturned tables and chairs and the vermin squirmed their way through. The kitchens offered no refuge and those who hid in store cupboards only prolonged the waiting, lengthened the torment as razor-sharp incisors gnawed away the barriers. Those who escaped into the walk-in freezer store with its rancid meat might have found some protection had not others belatedly tried to gain entry, pulling open the big metal door and allowing their attackers to storm through.

One elderly man hid inside an oven, cramming his body in, pulling the door closed, holding on to it for dear life, panting and sobbing, legs drawn up in foetal position. Unfortunately for him, the enemy was within. His old heart had given warning twice in the past and it finally lost patience with its host who would not avoid excitement. The old man suffered an undignified death, stuffed in an oven, now his coffin, his feet and arms feebly beating at the iron walls.

An elderly woman pushed open the double-doors to the bar, the stench of the more-recentiy dead of no concern, and slammed them shut behind her. She stood alone in the total darkness with her back to the doors, listening to the frightening noises outside, her frail legs barely able to hold her weight. A bump against the door made her start; something slid down the other side. More bumping at the base of the doors as though someone was struggling there. The woman stumbled away, hands groping the blackness, heading for the mound of old and new deceased who were wrapped in tablecloth shrouds.

She fell against something and her probing hands found the nose, an open mouth, of an upturned face beneath its thin covering of cloth. She crawled onto the pile of bodies, burrowing down, pulling them around her, flinching as cold hands brushed her arms, as rigid lips kissed her cheek, as the receptive cadavers crowded in on her, hugging her close as if to steal her warmth. Like the corpses, she tried not to breathe lest the sound give her away, but it seemed that her heart beat loud enough for them all. Encased in the stifling bundles, she waited, silently mouthing prayers not remembered since childhood, corpses tight around her as if conspiring to keep her hidden. She might well have eluded the attention of the predators had not other fugitives burst through the doors. The voracious rats quickly overwhelmed them, dragging them to their knees. The concealed woman tried to close her mind to the shrieks.

A quietness eventually fell. Most of the people had been swiftly killed; those still alive could only moan helplessly as the vermin fed.

The woman thought she was safe. Until she heard the rummaging among the mound of corpses in which she lay, the scrabbling of claws, strange childlike sounds. Weight shifted around her. Something nuzzled against the loose fat above her hip. Something began nibbling at the side of her neck.

She scratched at the itch on her cheek, her eyes still closed, her other senses still captive of sleep. The insect moved on in search of less resisting prey. Kate's full awakening was sudden, eyelids snapping open like released blinds, sprung by returning fear. The white blanketing mist did not disappear with the blinking of her eyes.

It was several minutes before she was aware that the rain had stopped and the sun had turned the earth's wetness to rising vapour. Her fear quietened.

They had escaped the underground refuge and its unnatural vermin. Flight through the rubbled city had been a continuation of the torment, terror of being pursued driving them on through the rain, each jagged streak of lightning making them flinch, the ensuing thunder causing them to cringe. They had stopped only when they found a clearing, each of them dropping to the ground, drenched, exhausted, with little will left to carry on. She had crawled into Culver's arms, and some time in the night the rain itself had wearied and finally, after so many weeks, relented. The day's heat was clammy and insects droned in the steamy air; the sky was a bright, white haze, only a faint colouring indicating the sun's position.

Kate glanced at her watch: nearly eleven-twenty; they had slept the morning away.

Culver lay like a dead man next to her, one arm thrown across his face as if to shield his eyes from the sun's nebulous presence - or perhaps to cover them against further horror. Without disturbing him, she raised herself on one elbow and looked around.

The mist was almost impenetrable beyond thirty yards or so, although occasionally warm air currents disturbed the swirling veils to reveal glimpses of the destroyed landscape beyond. Kate shivered, even though her body was soaked in perspiration.

The area they sheltered in had once been a park, a green, path-patterned oasis surrounded by tall, once-gracious buildings. To one side had been the older law offices of Lincoln's Inn, a complex comprised of buildings dating as far back as the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, a high wall separating it from the park. The wall no longer stood, nor did the legal ghetto, for she knew they had climbed through its ruins the night before. She was sure, although she could not see them, that the other buildings which bounded the park would be gone, too, and that the nearby scrubbed stonework of the Law Courts - the huge gothic Royal Courts of Justice - would be nothing but crushed rubble. The park, with its tennis and netball courts, cafeteria, and seat-fringed lawns, had always bustled with life, especially around lunchtime and particularly in the spring and summer months when local office workers poured into it for a brief respite from the city itself; now the grass and leafless trees - those still standing - were scorched black and the only bustle was that of milling insects, their constant droning replacing the sound of voices, of laughter.

And she noticed that the peculiarity was not just in the number of insects, but in the unusually large size of many of them. Maybe they were the meek who would inherit the Earth.

Culver stirred, groaning a little as he wakened. Kate turned to him.

His eyes flickered open and she saw alertness spring into them. There was something more, too: the spectre of deep dread was visible for just an instant as he looked into the drifting mists. Kate quickly touched his face.

'It's all right, we're safe,' she said softly.

He relaxed only slightly and stared up at the white sky. 'It's hot.'

'Humid, almost tropical. The sun must be fierce beyond the mists.'

'Any idea of where we are?'

'I'm pretty sure it's Lincoln's Inn Fields.'

'Uh-huh, I know it.' He raised himself on both elbows. 'It used to be pleasant.' He turned his face towards hers and she saw the question.

'I'm all right,' she told him. 'A little battered, a little bruised, but alive.'

'Did we all make it?'

'I don't know - I think so. Wait - Strachan didn't get out.'

Memories rushed in and his eyes narrowed as if from pain. 'An engineer fell. Two others went down before we even got into the shaft. And Farraday, the others, Bryce...'

'I don't think they had a chance. There were explosions before we got to the ventilation plant. And fire...' Kate shrugged.

She felt Culver appraising her and was conscious of the bedraggled mess she presented, with her torn clothes, tangled, matted hair and grime-smeared skin.

Culver saw the softness of her features, the sadness in her brown eyes. The man's torn shirt she wore was too large and made her look small, vulnerable, and younger than her years. As yet, the ordeal had not etched irreparable lines in

her skin and the dirt on her face combined with the ripped clothing to give her a waif-like appearance.

He pulled her to him and, for a little while, they rested in each other's arms.

Eventually, she asked him: What happens now, where do we go?'

'I think Dealey may have the answer to that,' Culver replied. Despite the rain having fallen for so long, he could still smell the acridity of the scorched grass. Nearby, a blackened tree rested its length along the ground like some discarded giant charcoal stick. Vapour rising from the ground added to the haunting desolation of the scene.

'He seems to be a man who likes secrets.'

Culver's attention was drawn back to the girl. 'It's engrained in him.'

"You'd think he'd have forgotten his civil service training under these circumstances.'

'It's precisely these circumstances he's been trained for. The "them and us" syndrome carries on, no matter what, only I think now there are more of "them" than "us" left. That's the way it's always been planned.'

'Do we have a chance?'

While we've got him we do. He was the only reason I got into the Kingsway Exchange, remember?'

'He needed you then.'

'Devious as he is, I don't think he'll desert us. Besides, I don't think he'll want to travel alone through what's left of this city - the dangers are too great.'

'Dangers?'

The rats, for one.'

‘You think they'd come out into the open?'

He nodded. They'll have a field day. Take a look at these insects: they've thrived on radiation and while there may not

be much vegetation left for them to eat, there's plenty of other food around.'

She did not ask what he meant by 'other food'.

Those that needed to may well have adapted fast. As for the rats, they must be instinctively aware they have the upper hand - look at the way they attacked us in the shelter. They may still feel uncomfortable in broad daylight, but they only have to wait for nightfall. Then, as we well know, there's the problem of rabid animals. And working a way through the ruins will be treacherous; break a leg or ankle and you're in real trouble. No, Dealey's better off in a group and he knows it. Which reminds me, my ankle's hurting like hell.'

She moved down to examine the injured limb and winced when she saw the ragged holes in his blood-soaked sock. Even the top of his boot had blood-smeared puncture marks. Untying the lace, she eased the boot off then began to gently roll down the torn sock; she was relieved to find no swelling.

"When did the rat get at you? Can you remember?'

'Clearly,' he answered. 'It was just before we closed the opening to the vent shaft. Fairbank got me through.'

*We need to clean the wound.'

She reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled but unused handkerchief. ‘Ill wrap this around it for now and pull the sock back up to keep it in place. We'll have to find somewhere to bathe it, and we'll need antiseptic.'

Thank God Clare kept us regularly dosed against their disease.' A shadow passed over Kate's face as she thought of the doctor's terrible death. She busied herself with the handkerchief, folding it carefully to make a rough dressing. ‘Your ear's been cut through too, Steve,' she informed him, 'and there's a nasty gash in your temple. They'll need looking at.'

Culver touched the wounds, then closed his eyes, quickly opening them again when his thoughts became even more vivid. He stared into the surrounding fog and Kate became aware that he was trembling. She assumed it was a reaction to the previous night's events and quickly changed position to put an arm around his shoulder.

‘You did what you could for all of them, Steve. Don't let it prey on your mind. You can't be responsible for all our lives.'

His words were sharp as he pulled away. 'I know that!'

Kate did not allow the rebuttal; she moved with him. "What is it, Steve? There's something more that you won't tell me. Clare mentioned something to me back there in the shelter, when you were sick. You were delirious, talking, calling out for someone. Clare thought it was a woman, a girl, someone who meant a great deal to you and who drowned. You've never told me, Steve, not in all the time we were inside the shelter; can't you tell me now?'

Kate was surprised to see a smile appear, albeit a bitter one.

'Clare got it wrong. It wasn't someone close and it wasn't a girl. It was a machine.'

She stared at him in confusion.

'A goddam helicopter, Kate. Not a person, not a wife or lover; a Sikorsky S61 helicopter.' His short laugh expressed the bitterness of his smile. 'I crashed the bloody thing because of my own stupid carelessness.'

She was relieved, but could not understand why the memory still haunted him.

As if reading her mind, he added, 'I crashed her into the sea and eighteen men went down with her.'

It made sense to her now: his frequent remoteness, the aloofness towards the happenings around them and the decisions that had had to be made, yet the reckless bravery to save others, the risks he took. For some reason he blamed himself for the deaths of these eighteen men and, a natural survivor, he disdained his own survival. He had no death wish, of that she was sure, but his 'life' wish was not so strong either. So far it seemed to be the survival of others that drove him on, starting at the very beginning with Alex Dealey. She hesitated for a moment, but she had to dare to ask, had to know how justified his guilt feelings were.

Will you tell me what happened?' she said.

At first, when the coldness crept into his blue-grey eyes, she thought he would decline; then his gaze swept past her, staring intently into the mist as if seeing the destruction beyond. Whatever inner battle was taking place, it was soon resolved. Perhaps his own guilt feelings paled into insignificance against this vast obscene backdrop, itself a devastating indictment of mankind's culpability; or perhaps he had just wearied of his self-inflicted penance and felt admission -confession? - would expel its demons. Whatever the motive, he lay back against the scorched grass and began to tell her.

Tears ago, when the North Sea oil boom really took off, the big charter companies found themselves desperately short of helicopter pilots to ferry oil-rig crews back and forth. Bristow's could take an experienced single-wing pilot and turn him into an experienced chopper pilot in three months, with no charge for the training; an agreement to work for them for at least two years was the only stipulation. I signed on, went through their training, but unfortunately didn't quite manage to fulfil the contract.'

He avoided her eyes and flicked at a fly that was buzzing close to his head.

The money and conditions were great,' Culver went on, 'so was the company. There wasn't much risk involved because flying wasn't permitted under extreme weather

conditions; occasionally an emergency would take us out at such times, and now and again bad weather caught us without warning. The morning my chopper went down into the sea started perfectly: sun shining, calm waters, little breeze. I guess if it hadn't been like that, none of us would have survived.'

He fell into silence once more and Kate thought he had changed his mind, had decided the memory was best left undisturbed. He looked at her as if asking her trust and, by lying close beside him, head resting against his shoulder, she gave it.

'I had a full load,' he finally went on. Twenty-six passengers - engineers, riggers, a relief medical team -

and everyone seemed cheered by the fine weather. I remember the sun dazzling off the water as if it were no more than a huge placid lake. We took off and flew at a height of fifteen hundred feet towards our designated oil rig. We were soon over it and flying past, gradually descending to our inbound level...'

Kate raised her head and looked at him in puzzlement.

'Sorry,' he said. 'Standard procedure for rig landing is to fly five miles beyond, descend to two hundred feet and head back, preferably with the wind behind. The rig shows on radar, although the blip disappears from the scanner when it's within a mile's range; after that you rely on sight.

'Everything was normal, no problems at all. I was still on the outbound course, levelling off, when we ran smack into a thick sea mist.'

He shivered, his body becoming tense, and Kate held him tight.

'It was sudden, but no cause for alarm. I turned the machine and headed back in the direction of the rig, flying even lower to keep visual contact with the sea. I should have risen above the fog bank, but I figured we were close to the rig and would soon be clear of the mist.

But you see, the fog was shifting and moving in the same direction - that's why it had come up on us so swiftly when we were outbound. Then, without any warning, I had nothing at all to focus on.

'I should have switched to instrument flying, but I was confident I could rely on my own instincts to take us clear; all I had to do was maintain a constant altitude. The Civil Aviation Authority has a term for it:

"Pilot disorientation", an overwhelming compulsion for a pilot to believe in his own senses rather than what his instruments tell him. They say it's a common phenomenon, even among the most experienced aircrew; all I know is that my stupidity cost the lives of those men.'

'Steve, you can't blame yourself.' She tugged at his collar as if to shake sense into him.

'I can, and I do,' he said quietly. 'Every pilot who has lost his aircraft and killed his passengers and who has himself survived feels the same way, even when no fingers are pointed at him. It's something there's just no refuge from.'

She saw it was pointless to argue at that moment. Tell me what happened,' she said, and this time there was no reluctance on his part to continue.

We hit the sea and bounced off. We hit again and the floor was ripped out. One of the flotation tanks must have been damaged, too, because next time we hit, the copter flipped over and sank.

'I found myself outside, lungs full of freezing water. Don't ask me how I got out, I don't remember; maybe through an escape hatch, or maybe I just floated through the ripped floor. I was semi-conscious, but I could see the helicopter below, sinking fast, disappearing into that deep, never-ending gloom. I broke surface, coughing water, half-drowned, that

murky vision already working its own special torture. I tried to get rid of my lifejacket, tried to tear it off so I could go back down, help those still trapped inside the helicopter, anything to relieve me of my guilt there and then, even if it meant my own death; but other hands grabbed me, held me there. My junior captain had escaped, too, and was clinging to me, one of the surviving riggers helping him. They stopped me diving and sometimes I curse them for it.

'Only eight of us made it. Other bodies were recovered later, but most went down with the Sikorsky.

We were lucky that another helicopter was preparing for take-off on another rig close to the one we were headed for; when we lost radio contact and disappeared from the radar scanner, it was sent out to search for us. By the time it reached our last point of contact, the fog bank had drifted on and we were visible. They winched us aboard just in time; any longer and the cold would have finished us, even though the weather itself was mild.'

Culver sighed deep and long, as though some of the pain had been released with the telling. His voice became flat, unemotional. The wreckage was never recovered, so the investigators couldn't be sure if instrument failure had been involved; but from my own account and my co-pilot's, "pilot disorientation"

was assumed. The CAA rarely classes it as a sign of incompetence or negligence, so no action was taken against me. It was my fault, of course, but not officially, and no one voiced any accusations.'

'And yet you blamed yourself,' said Kate.

'If I'd followed the book, those people would still be alive.'

'I can't answer that, Steve. It seems trite to say that accidents will always happen, even to the most careful. The fact that you weren't accused, not even in private, surely absolves you from any responsibility.'

The company didn't ask me to complete my contract'

'Do you really wonder at that? My God, they wouldn't be so heartless.'

'It may have been the best thing for me, to fly that same route, to try to carry on as normal.'

'How could your employers know that? It could have been the worst thing to have done. I can't believe you've been so foolish as to allow guilt to shadow your life for so long.'

'It hasn't, Kate. Oh, it was bad for a long, long time, but gradually the thoughts found their own little hideaway at the back of my mind. I wasn't too well received at other companies after the crash, despite the inquiry's findings, and I was desperate to get back in the air. I needed to find my own peace.'

The perspiration that trickled from his forehead was due to something more than humidity. Thank God an old friend came along just at the right time. Harry McKay and I learned to fly together and we'd kept in loose contact over the years. He suggested our own charter company; he'd handle the business side, I'd do the flying. Harry had a little money of his own and knew where he could find more. We'd be up to our ears in debt for a few years, but it would be our own company and eventually all the profits would be ours. Debt or no debt, profit or no profit, I jumped at the chance. From that moment on we were so busy that I was able to keep those bad memories suppressed, even though I was always aware they were lurking on that shelf, ready to slip down—'

'Or be taken down and dusted off? Is that what you do from time to time?'

He twisted his head to see her face. 'You're harder than you look,' he said.

'No, I just hate to see someone indulge themselves in self-torment. You were cleared by the inquiry and by your own

company, even though everybody loves a scapegoat. It seems to me you've been punishing yourself because the authorities didn't. Maybe you'll take this world destruction on your shoulders, too. Sure, you can take my part of the burden as well. I don't need it.'

"You're being bloody—'

'Silly? Am I really? Isn't guilt supposed to be a primary condition of the human psyche?'

He smiled. 'Is this meant to shake me out of my self-pitying stupor?'

Kate tried to turn away, her anger flaring, but he held her. Tm sorry,' he said. 'I know what you're trying to do and I'm not mocking. I'd even go as far as to say I'm grateful. But just telling you about it has already helped. It's as if I've let something go, set those memories free. Maybe I was the gaoler of my own memories all this time, when all they wanted was to be set loose. And what you said about this world destruction is partly true: it doesn't minimize what happened on that day, but it kind of overshadows it.'

She relaxed against him. 'Haven't you spoken about the accident to anyone else before?'

'Couple of people, Harry for one. Usually in drinking sessions.'

'Was the other person a woman?'

'No. As a matter of fact, it was a doctor. Not a shrink. Just an ordinary GP. You want to hear about it?'

She nodded against his shoulder.

'About a year after the accident I developed sore testicles - at least, that was what it felt like to me.

You can smile, but when that happens to a man he fears the worst. I let it ride for a while, but it got no better. Finally, I went to see my doctor and he diagnosed an inflamed prostate, said it was due to stress.

I offered that flying was a stressful occupation,

but he was smarter than that. He explained that after the helicopter went down and all those lives had been lost, I had kept my emotions in check, had never allowed the breakdown that should have naturally followed - not necessarily a huge, hysterical breakdown, you understand, but perhaps a brief nervous collapse. I hadn't allowed it and the body won't be fooled. The inflamed prostate was a physical manifestation substituting for a mental one. The damage wasn't permanent, just a little uncomfortable for a while, and eventually it passed.'

'But the anguish didn't.'

'No, I told you - it found its little place to rest on. I guess the point I'm trying to make is that my only penalty for a stupid mistake was sore balls, when it was death for all those others, misery for their families. Doesn't that strike you as hilarious?'

*You suffered more than that. And it's never stopped for you, no matter how much you kept the hurt inside. You talk of penalties without realizing that life itself doesn't punish us; it's something we confer on ourselves. We create our own atonement. We manufacture our own crucifix and nail ourselves to it.'

Culver was momentarily too surprised to answer. Whether or not he agreed with Kate's philosophy, he knew he had misjudged her. He should have realized there was more to her by the way she had adapted inside the shelter, how she had helped Clare Reynolds nurse the sick, himself included, how quickly she had accepted - no, adjusted to - the hideous and traumatic change in all their lives. And she had proved she was no fluttering, fainting damsel in their escape from the shelter.

Why are you looking at me like that?' Kate asked. 'Haven't you heard a thing I've been saying?'

'Oh yes, I've heard.' He kissed her forehead. 'And you may be right. How come you didn't mention all this before?'

Her exasperation rapidly vanished. 'How come you didn't tell me about the crash before?'

Culver was about to reply when movement caught his eye. 'It'll have to keep. Looks like the others are stirring.'

'Steve ...' She pulled at him as he began to rise.

He looked down at her quizzically and she returned his kiss.

A frightened voice called out. 'Oh God, where is everybody?' Culver answered. Take it easy, Ellison.

You're safe enough.' He pulled on his boot and reluctantly got to his feet, gazing down at Kate as he rose. He gently touched her hair before walking over to the engineer, limping slightly as he went. Kate followed.

The others were waking, disturbed by Ellison's shout. They stared around them, startled by the mist.

Culver did a quick check as he approached: Ellison, Dealey, Fairbank stretched out beneath a fallen tree.

Jackson and one other engineer, a man he knew as Dene. Five of them, he and Kate, making seven. Had they lost others in their flight through the ruins? He didn't think so; the rest had probably drowned or been torn to pieces by the vermin back inside the shelter. Or maybe even burned to death: the choice of death was varied.

Ellison looked relieved to see him. 'What is this place?' he asked, rising.

'As far as we can make out, it's what used to be Lincoln's Inn Fields,' Culver replied. 'What's left of it.'

Ellison tried to penetrate the mist. The rats ...?'

'Stay calm. We left them back in the shelter. We're safe for now.'

Dealey had risen only to his knees as if the world was still unsteady. This fog - is it a dust cloud?'

'Use your head.' Culver grabbed his arm and hauled him up. 'Can't you feel the heat, the humidity?

After all that rain and with the sun beating down, the place has become a steam bath. And if that makes you uncomfortable, just wait until the insects start biting.' He turned towards the fallen tree. 'How're things, Fairbank?'

The small stocky engineer yawned, then grinned back at him. Things is hungry.'

That sounds healthy enough. Jackson, Dene?'

The two other engineers looked less happy. They rose and joined the others, eyes warily watching their surroundings.

'Any injuries?' Culver asked of them all.

'Do bruises and grazes count?' said Fairbank, reaching the group.

'Only rat bites and broken limbs are eligible.'

Then I'm not even in the race.'

'Check yourself, anyway. You never know what you did to yourself back there.'

Each man examined his clothing for tears and his skin for abrasions. There were cuts and plenty of bruises, but no bites.

We were lucky,' Fairbank said.

'Luckier than those poor bastards we left behind,' Jackson remarked angrily and a silence fell over them.

It seemed natural that Dealey should break the silence. We must get away from here. I believe it's still not safe to be out here in the open.'

Each man, soul-weary and afraid of what lay ahead for them, studied the dishevelled Ministry man with quiet,

brooding disdain, as though now holding him solely responsible for the deaths of their colleagues and friends left behind in the Exchange. Kate sensed and shared their contempt, yet oddly felt a tinge of pity for Dealey. He stood among them, a small, balding, middle-aged man, his clothing torn, his face and hands filthy, his shoulders - his whole demeanour -stooped and tremulous, and she knew it was wrong of them to attribute so much blame to him. The grand folly was universal.

She broke the tension, anxious to avoid the confrontation that was looming and which would be so pointless. Will it be possible to get out of London?' she asked, not just of Dealey but of all of them.

Dealey, no fool and aware of their resentment, was grateful for her question. Tes, yes, of course. But there is an easier way than going overland. And there is still a safe place for us here in the city—'

What city, you—' Jackson took a step towards Dealey, but Culver held his arm.

'Easy,' he said. 'I think I know where Dealey means. First, though, we've got a few minor things to take care of. I could do with some food, for one, and I think we need to rest up a little more before making plans. Besides, I've got a rat bite that I need treated before I do any more walking.'

We can't stay here,' Dealey insisted. This very mist may be thick with radiation.'

'I doubt it. The most critical time is over and besides, the long rainfall must have flushed most, if not all, the radiation away. Anyway, we've spent a whole night in the open; if we were going to be poisoned, it'll have happened by now.'

'But there's been no All-clear.'

'Christ, get it into your head, Dealey: there's never going to be an All-clear. There's no one left to give such a signal.'

That's not true. There are other shelters, many of them; the main government shelter under the Embankment will still be intact, I'm sure.'

Then why no communication from them?'

'A breakdown somewhere. EMP, collapse of the cable tunnels - any number of things could have broken our communications with other stations.'

'Let's cut out the crap,' Ellison interrupted. 'Right now we need food and maybe something for self-protection, if we can find anything. I don't like the idea of travelling unarmed.'

Jackson agreed. This looks like as good a place as any to rest up in. At least it's open ground and man, I'm sick of confined spaces.' He turned to Dene who nodded in agreement.

Fairbank just grinned approval and Kate said, You need something on that wound, Steve. It looks clean enough and there's no puffiness around the bite, but you never can tell.'

Culver frowned at Dealey. 'I'd rather we all stayed together, but if you want, you can go your own way. It's up to you.'

After a moment's hesitation, Dealey said, ‘Ill stay.'

Culver hid his relief: the civil servant had too much valuable 'inside' knowledge for them to have let him leave. 'Okay, let's decide on who our scavengers are going to be.'

'I'll be one,' Fairbank promptly volunteered. 'And you won't be the other,' he told Culver. We'll try and find antiseptics, medicines and analgesics along with some food, while you rest that leg. I know the area and where to head for; let's hope we can burrow our way into some of the shops.' He wiped sweat from his face and neck with his hands, then glanced at Jackson and Dene. You two game?'

'Sure, we know the area too,' Jackson said for them both. Dene, a thin, sallow-complexioned man in his early twenties,

appeared less certain, but did not feel inclined to argue.However, he thought of something that the others seemedto have overlooked. 'How we gonna find our way back in thisfog? I mean, the streets won't exactly be the same, will they?'

'Is your wristwatch the type with hands?' Culver asked. The engineer nodded. You can just see the haze of the sun.Got it? Okay, south is midway between the hour hand andtwelve o'clock. It'll give you a rough bearing on where thepark is; once you locate it you'll soon find us. Try and getback within the hour and save us some worry.'

'If you can find anything left to burn, a fire might help us,'Jackson suggested.

We'll manage something. Just be careful and don't takeany chances.'

Fairbank clicked his tongue against his teeth and pointed.The three men set off together, backs to the sun, heading towards the area that had once been High Holbora.

Culver and the others watched the mist swallow them up.It was an eerie and foreboding sight, and the immenseemptiness they left behind had little to do with unoccupiedspace.

Culver shook off the feeling, concentrating on the task in hand. 'Kate, will you help Ellison collect wood

- branches,fencing, anything that hasn't burned to charcoal - and bringit here? Any paper would help too

- search the litter bins.And keep within shouting distance.'

Ellison appeared ready to object, but evidently thought better of it. He walked away, a hand brushing flies from theair before him, and Kate went with him.

Culver slowly turned to face the last man left with him.'Just me and you now, Dealey. I've got one or two questionsand you're going to give me straight answers. If not, I'll breakyour bloody neck.'

Alex Dealey shifted uncomfortably against the tree stump, itsblackened, jagged shape rising above him like an accusingfinger pointed at the night sky. Not far away, the fire thathad been kindled earlier in the day and constantly fed withanything that would burn, hued the mist orange. The blazewas welcome not just for its warmth against the sudden chillof the night air, but because it held the all-prevailing darknessat bay, and with it, its terrors. The others, except Culver andthe girl, who it would appear had found warmth and comfortin each other, stayed close to the protective glow, gazinginto the brightness, conversing in low-murmured voices.Occasionally laughter broke the quiet tones, although neverraucous, always subdued, as if the men were afraid the soundmight carry to hostile ears. Dealey stayed apart from thegroup, his hunched shoulders covered by one of the blankets the three engineers had brought back with them from theirforage into the ruins, for their resentment of him was obvious, unequivocal, and discomforting. Fools. Ungratefulbloody fools.

He pulled the blanket over his head, holding the sidestight under his chin so that he resembled a huddled monk,only his nose and the tip of his chin caught in the fire glow. He smelled of insect repellent and antiseptic ointment, these too salvaged from the ravaged city, and a plaster covered a cut on his forehead, another a larger wound on the back of his hand, both injuries sustained in their escape from the shelter. The three engineers had been gone longer than expected, causing concern among those who had stayed. There had been no need to worry, though, for their delay had been caused by the amount of useful items they had managed to scavenge.

Quite a few of the shops had been destroyed by fire, while others had been completely buried by the debris of office blocks they were housed beneath; some, however, although badly damaged, could be reached by cautious digging. Two cafe-restaurants, a hardware store and a pharmacist had been unearthed, and Jackson had remembered an up-market bedding centre from where they had retrieved sheets and blankets in which they could carry their prizes. The men were ashen-faced when they returned, not even the accumulation of dirt disguising their skin's paleness, and had refused to speak of the harrowing sights they had witnessed, only Fairbank mentioning that piles of bodies had been blasted into corners or against rubble mounds like so much litter by fierce winds. They had come across no living person.

The fire, lit with a lighter taken from a corpse by Ellison, had been a beacon to them in the humid mists once they had found their way back to the desolated square in which the blackened park was situated, and they had proudly, if quickly, displayed their spoils. Four short-handled axes, honed to a lethal sharpness, two hammers, and six long knives had been brought back as utensils or weapons, whichever purpose they lent themselves to at any time. Flashlights, already battery-loaded, thin rope, spoons, scissors, two can-openers, paper cups, a miniature camping stove along with a Calor gas cylinder, had been retrieved from the hardware store. From the pharmacist (which had proved the hardest to enter, but considered worth the risk and effort) came bandages, Band-aids, cotton wool, antiseptic cream, insect repellent, bicarbonate of soda, glucose tablets and vitamin pills, water purifying Sterotabs and, considered extremely important, three rolls of toilet tissue. Fairbank discreetly handed Kate two small packages which Dealey guessed contained tampons (he also suspected birth control pills were wrapped up with them, for he knew that Dr Reynolds had strongly encouraged all the surviving women in the shelter to use the contraceptive tablets thoughtfully provided by the government among the medical supplies).

The few battery-operated radios they had come upon were either completely dead or had only emitted heavy static. As for food, they had taken whatever canned items they could find, but not too much for it would prove too cumbersome and, once they travelled on, finding further supplies should not present too great a problem. The three engineers had expressed delight at how much canned food was kept by the cafe-restaurants as they produced their tinned harvest of beans, soup, chicken breast in jelly, ham, sausages, tongue, peas, asparagus, carrots, peaches, pineapple chunks, condensed milk, and coffee.

Cans of Coke and lemonade were also brought along in case they could not find an adequate source of water. They had all laughed when Culver had admitted he was glad they had decided not to bring back a lot of food.

Fairbank received loud commendations when he produced two bottles of Black Label Johnnie Walker.

Food was heated in its tins on the small stove while Kate treated and dressed the various wounds among the group. They were all grateful for the insect repellent, for the air was plagued with pests. Equal shares of food were dispersed among the plastic cups and nobody seemed to mind the agglutination of meat and vegetables; they ate as though this was their first meal for weeks and was to be their last for a similar period. The dessert followed in new cups and Coke was drunk straight from the tins. Jackson almost upstaged Fairbank with his whisky by producing four packs of cigarettes from his trouser pockets like a magician manifesting cute rabbits from thin air.

The alcohol, the cigarettes, and the filled stomachs contrived to create a mood of calmness, a natural enough counter-balance to the tension they had endured for so long. They spoke of their future hopes rather than the past tragedy, each one unconsciously trying to evoke some aspiration, something that could be salvaged from their shattered lives.

Dealey had not shared in the conversation, but had sat moodily staring into the fire.

Dusk fell swiftly, more swiftly than was natural for that time of year, and the steam, slowly dissipating throughout the long afternoon, fell low as if humbled by the incredible sunset that followed. They stood as one and gazed into the western sky, their upturned faces bathed in the reflected flare.

The huge, swift-rolling clouds, a confused combination of alto-cumulus and nimbo-stratus, were coloured in violent shades of red, orange, and yellow, their bellies streaked a dazzling gold, their ragged heights pure vermilion. They moved like mountains across the sky, vivid and powerful, overwhelmingly beautiful, and as the survivors watched they felt the earth itself could ignite once more by being so close to their boiling fury. Even though the sun's fiery brilliance was diffused by clouds and atmospheric dust, they could not look directly at it, for its intensity was too blinding, its effulgence too destructive; the sun, too, seemed outraged by

the satellite planet which had dared to re-create a facsimile power to its own.

Jagged glittering streaks patterned the sky like thin, dashed brushstrokes; these were not clouds but dust particles, coalesced and held aloft by warm, rising air currents. In the far distance some were descending vertically like heaven-thrown javelins.

The sky to the east was no less stunning, although its redness was more crimson, its clouds a deep amber in parts. All movement was in that direction as if sucked in by some giant vortex beyond the horizon. The spectacle was both awesome and frightening.

As they watched, spellbound, the red boiling anger gradually subsided, for the sun was sinking further into the horizon, turning the dusk into a softer, less frenzied vision, a warm richness subduing the violent-tossed clouds so that their hurried drifting became graceful, flowing rather than rushing.

The sun disappeared - and again, its descent seemed unnaturally fast - casting in its wake a shimmering radiance that lit the underbellies of the clouds so they seemed glutted with blood. Darkness encroached, a definite curve, vignetted only slightly, moving steadily but warily forward as if afraid of being scorched.

With it came a half-moon, indistinct and rust-stained, peeping only occasionally through the clouds, as though reluctant to bear witness to the spoiled earth below.

The temperature had cooled with the sun's fading, but only slightly; still the group moved closer to the fire and Dealey wondered if a primitive fear had been reborn. There was a silence between them for some time, each person intimidated yet uplifted by what they witnessed. Gradually, conversation resumed and more food was cooked and consumed. The second whisky bottle was emptied.

Evening became night and stars were hidden behind clouds and dust that layered the upper atmosphere; the elusive half-moon changed from russet to a pale sanguine (like the last of Christ's blood on the Cross, Dealey had thought, the final trickle that had run like water; perhaps the moon reflected the blood spilt below). Dealey moved away from the fire, tired of the others' attitude towards him, resenting their scorn. They didn't - couldn't - understand his importance to them, how he and he alone had seen them through the worst of the disaster, guided them through those early days, organizing, administrating -

taking on the damned responsibility^. The events of the day, with its discoveries, and the relief from the violence of the preceding night, had obviously enhanced their drunkenness, for they treated him as though he, personally, had pressed the button that had precipitated this third and final world war. It was a mood that classified government circulars dealing with what was termed the 'ultimate confrontation' had warned against. Civil unrest, aggression against the authoritative body. Subversion, anarchy, revolution. Events inside the Kingsway shelter had proved the correctness of the government view. And even now, when he had led this miserable few to safety (in that his knowledge had provided the escape route) they treated him with disrespect.

He shivered, glad of the blanket, for the warm clamminess of the evening had finally given way to the night's chill. He had watched Culver and the girl leave the fireside, they too taking a blanket with them (for warmth or cover?). It was obvious why they wanted to be alone. Wonderful aphrodisiac was death.

He shook his head, the movement lost beneath the blan-

ket. Culver could have been a useful ally, yet he chose to side with the ... the - Dealey refused to allow the word to form in his mind, but the thought was there anyway - the rabble. The pilot's interrogation earlier in the day had been discourteous to say the least. Harsh, even brutal, might be more appropriate.

—Exactly how many entrances to the main government headquarters below the Embankment were there?—

—Would some still be accessible?—

—Could the shelter have been flooded?—

—Specify the separate tunnels leading to it—

—When was the shelter built?—

—Before which World War: this one, the last one, or the first?—

—Had the government been prepared for this war?—

—How long before the bombs dropped was the evacuation into the shelter taking place? Hours, days, weeks?—

—How many days?—

—What number of people could the shelter hold?—

—Jesus, how were they all chosen?—

—Apart from government and military personnel—

—What skills and what trades?—

—Why those? What bloody influence did they have on the government? What made them so valuable?—

—Planners? What the hell could they plan except how to make money from the ashes?—

—How long could everybody exist down there?—

A pause. An angry, tight-lipped pause. And then

—Would they, this small group of survivors, be allowed in?—

Dealey had answered the questions, calmly at first, but eventually becoming outraged, himself, by Culver's anger. He, Dealey, was only a minion, he didn't run the bloody show, he wasn't privy to every government document or decision. If he had been, he would have been inside the headquarters his bloody self. He just wished they would all get it into their thick skulls that he was nothing more than a glorified bloody building inspector! That was the only reason he had keys and inside knowledge. All right, he was intended to be one of the privileged few, but wasn't included in the early evacuation and, as it turned out, he was lucky to have survived at all. And someone had to take charge down there, in the Exchange, otherwise the survivors would have degenerated into a disorganized, defeatist mob!

His outburst had meant nothing to Culver, for the questioning was not yet over. The pilot was curious about the rats.

Unlike before, when Dealey had been questioned inside the shelter on this special breed of vermin, he finally (and it was obvious to Culver, with no remorse over his previous lie) admitted that he knew they had not been entirely eliminated, nor could they be unless the whole of London's underground network, the sewers, the canals, the railway tunnels, and all basement areas were filled with poison gases or compounds, and even then there would have been no guarantee of total eradication. The task would be too dangerous and too immense. And the vermin could always flee into the surrounding suburbs. Even so, the numbers were thought to be so small that there would be no real danger to the community as a whole and certainly a massive purge on the vermin would cause unnecessary panic in the capital's populace. Far better to be vigilant and act swiftly and silently should there be evidence that they were growing in numbers.

Culver had not been satisfied. Dealey knew more - or at least, suspected more - than he was saying.

The time for secrecy had long passed and, Culver warned, the others in their group might not be as tolerant as he if they suspected Dealey was still withholding information. The older man had protested that there really was nothing more to tell. Except ... Except... yes, there was a certain rumour circulating in various ministerial departments, a rumour that did not rouse much curiosity and therefore had died as swiftly as it had begun.

Dealey had been vague about the story for he honestly did not recall the details, but the pilot had pressed him further, his eyes keen and searching. Something about ... let me see ... about a certain kind of rat - several, in fact, of this mutant species - in captivity. It was said that they were under observation in a government research laboratory, possibly - no, probably - being allowed to breed. The only interesting part of this rumour was that the creatures were apparently undergoing some extraordinary genetic transformation. There were two types of mutant vermin, he had explained, the kind resembling the normal Black rat, and another, which was a grotesque. It was the grotesque that the scientists were particularly interested in.

He had been afraid the younger man would strike him then. Why hadn't he told them all this before?

Why had the government been so secretive about the mutants; what was there to fear? Culver had actually drawn his fist back and Dealey had stepped away, his own arm raised for protection. That movement may have saved him from the other man's wrath, for the rage disappeared from Culver's eyes and his fist dropped limply to his side. The anger was replaced by disgust.

There had been no further questions. Culver had walked away to sit by a blackened, branchless tree and had not spoken another word until Ellison and the girl returned with firewood.

Dealey was relieved (there was enough hatred directed towards him) that the pilot did not mention their conversation to the others later in the day; he was also somewhat contemptuous. Well, Mr Culver, who was withholding information now? Did he consider they already had enough to worry about? was it not in the public interest? With privileged knowledge came responsibility; perhaps you've learned that today.

Dealey had allowed himself a covert smile.

The fire still burned brightly, for the men around it kept the flames fed with more scavenged wood, but the heat did not reach Dealey at his huddled position against the mutilated tree. Beneath the blanket, his eyelids began to close, his chin began to drop to his chest.

Sleep took him in slow stages, for trepidation did battle with fatigue: the night and darkness were something to fear. And so were his dreams.

He was descending a steep, spiral staircase, the steps made of stone, worn and rounded as though many centuries of footsteps had preceded his. He thought the descent would never end and his head was giddy with the constant circle; his legs were becoming numb, his back aching with the constant jarring.

One hand reached out for the wall at his side and his fingers recoiled at the slimy wetness of the stonework. The stickiness was yellow-green, the colour of phlegm, and suddenly he was descending the throat of some massive beast and the twisting corridors he finally found himself in were its intestines.

Something or someone was waiting for him, somewhere ahead. He did not know if it would be in the creature's abdomen - or in its bowels. His feet slipped in the viscous fluid that lined the curling tunnel and the odour of rotting dead grew stronger with each step. At one stage hysteria seized him, flicking out from the darkness ahead like a lizard's tongue, and he turned in its grip as if to flee, but the fleshy corridor behind had shrunk so that there was no way back. He was drawn into the darkness, no longer capable of movement by himself.

They were waiting for him in a vast underground hall, perhaps a cavern, perhaps a crypt, and they grinned, but made no sound as he entered. Isobel was there, wearing the billowing, flowery dress he detested so much, the ridiculous straw hat with its cherries on the brim, and pink gloves that were meant for washing dishes and not the Queen's garden party, an invitation to which she still waited (yearned) for.

His sons were there, even the eldest who should have been overseas, blown to pieces on foreign soil, and their wives and children with them, all grinning, even the baby. There were others that he knew in the crowd - colleagues, his immediate superior at the Ministry, neighbours, and there was the ticket collector at his local railway station, and an archbishop he had once met at a dinner function, although he hadn't worn his full canonicals then - but most were strangers. Although they all bore one marked similarity. It was easy to spot, no problem at all, and he remarked upon it as they surged forward, surrounding him, grinning, grinning, grinning, revealing their teeth, the two long ones in front, the incisors, drooling wet, glistening sharp; for the heads were those of rats, even the baby's who turned from suckling its mother's swollen breast to grin at him, its jaws smeared with the blood that came from its mother's nipple ...

He wrenched away from the rat that nibbled at his arm, but the others crowded in on him, locking him tight among them, and Isobel leaned forward to kiss him, only her lips were bared and the teeth ready to sink into him. She ignored his rebuff and nuzzled his cheek, her smell choking him so that his throat constricted and he could hardly breathe. She drew blood and licked at it with a hairbrush-rough tongue.

She guzzled and the sound sickened him even more. His clothes were gone and they grinned at his shame. They poked his soft, overblown flesh, making appreciative noises. They bit pieces from him as though tasting delicacies; the mouthfuls became larger, more substantial, and soon they were eating into him, ignoring his protests, and as his hands touched his own face he felt bristling fur, stiffened whiskers, and his teeth were like theirs, sharp and deadly, and his hands turned to claws and they raked his own body. And even being one of them could not save him, for they stripped him of meat and fought over his heart, until he decided he'd had enough, it was a dream and it was time to leave, time to wake up before they devoured him completely. He forced his consciousness to assert itself and reluctantly, sluggishly, it obeyed, drawing him away, back through the slimy, twisting corridors, up the spiral staircase, family, friends and others snapping after him, still grinning, enjoying the game, upwards, upwards, higher and higher, a light ahead, closer, a bright light...

Awakening.

Awakening to another bad dream.

They stood like grey spectres in the mist, unmoving yet somehow tenuous, like shadows cast on shallow water. They were silently watching the sleeping forms spread around the still-glowing embers of the fire.

Dealey nervously rose to a sitting position, careful not to make a sound, at first wondering if this was merely a continuation of his dream. The blanket, which had remained over his head as he had sunk into his uneasy sleep the night before, slid onto his shoulders. He tried to count the spectral figures, but could not be sure if some were only stunted tree trunks, the morning mist - although not as dense as the previous day's - contriving to deceive. He was tempted to call out, to greet them or at least alert the others of his own group, but the cry stayed in his throat: there was something menacing in the vaporous silhouettes' unmoving, silent stance. Dealey pressed his back against the charcoaled tree stump.

An insect droned in front of him before touching down on his eyebrow, immediately sucking moisture gathered there. Dealey blinked, twitching his face to frighten the fly off, afraid to slap it away. The insect, fearlessly large, refused and its host was forced to jerk his head. The fly angrily droned away, but now a trickle of sweat running into the crevice by the side of his nose sought to torment him. Cautiously he lowered his head and brushed his face against the hand resting on his upraised knees, blaming the sweat on humidity and not fear.

One of the figures was moving, drawing nearer to the recumbent bodies, becoming more visible.

Dealey held his breath as the tall black man leaned over a heaped blanket, studying the sleeper beneath.

The man wore a shapeless see-through plastic mac, buttoned at the neck like a cape, and in one hand he carried a rifle, in the other, a rusty butcher's knife. He stood erect once more, then moved on to another sleeping form. This time he used the blade to draw back the blanket.

The other figures were emerging from the mist, becoming more distinct. One of them picked up the whisky bottle lying close to the embers and drained the last few dregs. The bottle was dropped back onto the blackened earth. The sleepers were beginning to stir.

Dealey counted ten ... twelve ... fifteen, at least fifteen figures approaching the makeshift campsite, and there were two, no, three small crouched shapes moving among them. Dogs! Oh, God, they had dogs with them! Weren't these people aware of rabies?

He opened his mouth to shout, in part a warning, in part a greeting, and something smooth and hard slid along his throat. He choked as pressure was exerted, the iron bar pinning his neck against the tree stump behind. In the corners of his eyes he could see filthy, white-knuckled hands on either side of the metal bar and he knew his captor was behind the stump, arms stretched around it. Dealey felt his tongue begin to fill his mouth from the pressure.

His companions were sitting up and looking around in surprise. Dealey watched, pinned to the tree, as one still sleeping man was kicked. Ellison awoke with a shout and tried to rise; a foot against his chest flattened him. Jackson saw and protested, but the big black man pressed the discoloured butcher's knife into his cheek. Fairbank reached for the short-handled axe lying close by, but a boot pinned his wrist against the grass stubble and another kicked the tool away. Dealey began to gurgle, his eyes staring like those of a ventriloquist's dummy in a garish-pink painted face, his tongue pressing between his teeth. His heels began to kick at the ground and he tried to slide beneath the bar, but the aggressor was too strong.

The tall black man looked his way and waved the rifle. With a last spiteful jerk, the pressure against Dealey's neck was released. He slumped over, hands trying to soothe his bruised throat. A less-than-gentle nudge with the iron bar sent him scrambling to join the others. He stumbled to his knees not far from the two black men, Jackson and the raincoated man, and stole a quick look around at the intruders, twisting his head and massaging his throat as he did so.

They were a strange group, their presence made more sinister by their apparel and the assortment of weapons they carried. Much of their clothing was tattered and stained with filth, although several wore shirts and jackets that still bore the sharp creases of newness; he assumed that these had only recently been taken from partially-destroyed stores. Like the tall black man, some wore unbuttoned raincoats as if expecting the rains to return at any moment. One or two wore floppy-brimmed women's hats. Ripped T-shirts, sweaters and jeans were the main dress, and shawls were draped around the shoulders of a few. There appeared to be more blacks than whites among the group, and all carried shoulder bags or cases of some kind.

There were three women with them, two West Indian

girls, who could only have been teenagers, and an older, white woman with bedraggled yellow hair and an expression that was as stony hard as any of the men's. She wore a patterned skirt, red the dominant colour although there was no brightness to it, which almost reached the bottom of her calves; below were ankle-length socks and sneakers. A loose-fitting blue sweater and a large, light-blue silk scarf, serving as a shawl, adorned her upper body. She coughed into a hand and the sound was throaty, full of bile. The two teenagers had on tight-fit jeans and sweaters, one wearing a man's jacket despite the heat.

Dealey saw now that the rifle the tall man held was, in fact, only an air-rifle, although in his grip it looked lethal. A telescopic sight was even mounted on its top. As he glanced around, he saw that others had similar weapons, while some had handguns tucked into waistbands or pointed at the figures on the ground. By the look of them, these too were only air-pistols. The rest of their armoury consisted of knives and long stout sticks - pickaxe handles, he assumed. A frightening, unruly-looking bunch, he thought, and flinched as a dog trotted up and sniffed his feet. The animal looked as mangy as the rest of them, but at least no foam speckled its jaws and no madness glinted in its eyes. It appeared to be reasonably well-fed, too; but then acquisition of food should have been no great problem as they themselves had found. When the dog turned away, disinterested, he noticed the sores and scabs on its sides and belly; parts of its body were also free of any hair.

Dealey turned his attention back to the people and realized they, too, were in a poor condition. One side of the tall black man's face was covered in sores and an eyelid was half-closed with an angry swelling; yellow, pus-filled spots flecked his lips. Others of his group bore the same marks.

The youngest of the girls clutched her stomach as if it pained her and several of the men looked equally uncomfortable. Roughly tied bandages decorated several arms and wrists; dressings could be seen on legs through torn trousers. One, a youth of no more than nineteen, rested on crutches, favouring a foot swaddled in discoloured wrappings so that it was swollen to three times its normal size.

Unlike the creatures of Dealey's dream, none of them was grinning. But the threat they exuded was the same.

It was Jackson who spoke first. "You gonna take this blade outa my face, brother?' He used soft tones, as if gentling a wild beast.

There was no change of expression as the other man flicked the knife across Jackson's cheek with a swift, easy movement, drawing blood. The prone engineer swore and touched his face; he drew the hand away and stared at his bloody fingers in disbelief.

'I ain't your brother, pigshit,' the other man said quietly. Someone sniggered.

Dealey began to rise, still clasping his throat, and two of the intruders moved closer. Who are you?' he asked, hoping the authority in his voice would carry some weight.

'Keep your mouth shut,' he was told. We askin' the questions, you givin' the answers.' The tall black man raised the rifle, so it was pointing at Dealey's head. This is a .22, almost as powerful as the real thing.

It hits target, it can kill.'

There's no need for this, I can assure—'

A pickaxe handle struck Dealey on the back of the legs and he tumbled to the ground, crying out sharply.

'I tol' you to shuddup,' the black man warned. The man who had hit Dealey stepped back and allowed the end of the thick stick to rest on the ground. There was an unhealthy pallor to his face and a redness to his eyes.

'I wanna know how you escaped the bombs,' the black man said. 'How come you weren't blown to pieces?'

We were—' Dealey began to say.

'Not you.' He prodded Jackson with the gun barrel. 'I want the nigger to tell me.' His entourage enjoyed the humour.

'Hey, come on, man,' the engineer protested. Why you talkin' to me like this?'

'Jus' answer the question, pigshit.'

We were below ground in a shelter before the bombs dropped.' He eased the end of the barrel away from his body, afraid the gun might go off. The other man allowed the movement.

What fuckin' shelter? You govmint men or somethin'?'

Jackson realized his mistake. 'No, no, we're just engineers, man. We worked in a telephone exchange, under the streets, that's all.'

'He said it was a shelter, Royston,' the yellow-haired woman volunteered. 'I heard him call it a shelter.'

The dark man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Yeah, I heard. You one of them crazy bastards who set this up?'

Jackson's eyebrows arched in surprise.

'Are you kiddin' me? I'm a fuckin' maintenance engineer, that's all. We're all telecom engineers, 'cept for...' He avoided looking towards Dealey. 'Come on, what's this about, man, we're all in the same trouble.'

'I figure different. You look kinda healthy, nigger. You all look kinda healthy. A lil dirty, maybe, but in pretty good condition, considerin'. We ain't seen many like you.'

There are others?' Dealey could not help but ask. 'How many have you seen?' He received a warning tap from the handle. 'No, please, this is important. You must tell us.'

'I don't need to tell you shit.' The man called Royston -Christian name or surname, it was unimportant to Dealey, at

that particular moment - strolled over. "What you think anyway, everybody's dead? Well most are, boy, an' them that ain't oughta be. But you still ain't tol' me why you lookin' so plump and healthy. You know somethin' we don't?'

He squatted beside Dealey, the wrinkled plastic mac opening out and spreading around him, and said confidentially, Take a look at us, man. We got scabs an' coughs and cuts that won't heal. We got the shits and some of our brothers have died jus' from bad colds, know what I mean? See that HI sister over there? She got runnin' sores all down her body. See the guy on crutches? His foot stinks so bad we can't go near him.' His voice became almost a whisper. 'Half of 'em is dyin' an' they don't know it.'

'Are there no hospitals, no medical centres?'

‘You don't hear me, mister. There's nothin', no hospitals, no help, no nothin'. The only good thing is there's no law, 'cept in what we carry.' He tapped the rifle barrel with the blade. We take what we want an' we do what we want, you understand?'

Dealey nodded slowly, realizing only brute force governed now. 'Are there no troops in the city?'

Royston allowed himself a short laugh and Dealey winced at the stale breath. 'Nothin'. There's nothin'

left anywhere, not in the whole fuckin' world. We come from th'other side of the river thinkin' somethin'

had to be left over here, but all we foun' was the dead and the walkin' dead. Sure, a few other groups like us, survivin' on what they can, killin' to get it if necess'ry. Jus' law of the jungle, what you might think is right for me, huh? So here am I gassin' an' you ain't answered one question yet.' He touched the top of the knife against Dealey's nose and his voice became harsh. 'How many of you aroun' here an' where do we find this shelter?'

'Look what I caught!' The interruption came from some

distance away and all heads turned to locate its source. Two figures came through the mist and one of them was Kate. Of course, Dealey remembered, she had drifted off with Culver the night before to find their own sleeping space. The other figure, a white man wearing trousers several times too large for him and an equally baggy jacket with just a vest beneath, was propelling her forward with one hand entwined in her hair. In the other hand he carried a curved meat-hook.

The smile behind Royston's eyes was not pleasant. He rose from his crouched position.

The other men in his group looked on with keen interest, while the blonde woman with the silk scarf regarded Kate with undisguised hostility, as though she posed a threat.

'Found her sleepin' just a little way off,' her captor announced with a grin. A red handkerchief was tied around his forehead to keep straggly hair away from his eyes. like the others, he hadn't shaved for quite some time and there were blemishes on his skin that might have been healing burns.

'She on her own?' the man called Royston asked.

'Reckon so. She was sound asleep when I crept up on her.'

Dealey looked off into the mist. Culver, where was Culver?

The big black man stood in front of Kate. 'Not bad,' he appraised, running the back of his fingers down her cheek. 'Not great, but not bad.' He allowed his hand to stray beneath her chin, touching her neck, sliding into the open shirt collar. He felt her breast and squeezed hard.

Kate recoiled from his touch, hitting out with clenched fists. The man still gripping her hair forced Kate to her knees, while the others, wary of the men they guarded, chuckled in anticipation. Over the past few weeks they had learned that everything, anything, they could find was for the taking: food, clothing, shelter, bodies, and lives - all were included. There was no control anymore, just survival.

Royston carefully laid the air-rifle on the ground, but kept the knife blade pointing upwards, and approached Kate once more. She glared angrily at him, but fear was in the expression too. Royston laid the blade flat against her cheek and the cold steel was as repugnant as his touch. His face was only inches away and she thought the smell was from the sores and scabs on his skin and not just his breath; his ulcerated lips moved slowly, as if it hurt to talk.

You need a lesson, white lady. You ain't got the say no more.' He twisted the blade so that the sharp edge was pressing into her cheek. Kate tried to pull away as blood seeped onto the discoloured metal but the hand in her hair held her firm.

"What the fuck you doing?' Jackson screamed, outraged by the reflection on his own race as much as the assault on the girl. He sprang forward and kicked at the other black man, sending him reeling and following through by grabbing the knife-wielding hand. Baggy Trousers let go of Kate and caught Jackson from behind, using the meat-hook to snag his shoulder, and pulled back. Jackson screamed as the curved point sank into a muscle. He was hauled off and he curled up into a tight ball as they attacked him with vicious kicks.

The two young blacks watching over Fairbank, one of them wearing a floppy-brimmed woman's hat, dared the stocky engineer with their stares to make a move. Another, a white man of considerable girth, but of tender years, held a thick arm around Dene's neck and pressed the barrel of an air-pistol into his temple. Ellison was similarly guarded and Dealey remained immobile on hands and knees.

'Stop it, you're killing him!' Kate pleaded.

'Hold it!' The big black man was on his feet once more and Kate sobbed with relief when the beating ceased. Her relief was premature.

Royston stooped to pick up the rifle and said, This mutha's goin' to learn the hard way. An' maybe we'll git some questions answered at th'same time. Bring him over here!'

He strode towards the remains of the fire and kicked at the ashes with his boot. Beneath the white dust, embers still glowed fiercely. 'C'mon, git him over.'

Baggy Trousers and another man caught Jackson by the elbows and dragged him to the wide circle of smouldering ashes.

'Okay, shove his face in there,' Royston pointed at the shimmering embers.

'No!' Kate screamed, rushing forward. Royston barely looked as he slapped her to the ground. He nodded to his men and stood behind the half-conscious Jackson, legs apart and gun butt resting against a hip, barrel pointing skywards.

The faces of Baggy Trousers and his accomplice were grim as they drew the kneeling engineer closer to the fire. At its edge, they leaned him over so that he was off balance. They began to force his head downwards.

Culver crept forward, crouching low, using the gradually thinning mist as cover. In one hand he held the small axe he had taken with him the night before. He and Kate had left the others chatting around the fireside, both wanting privacy, a chance to talk together. They had found a fallen tree and snuggled down beside it, Culver spreading the blanket they had brought with them and wrapping it around them when they had settled. The axe was in case any unwelcome visitors of the kind that had black fur and sharp teeth should come

upon them during the night. Although it would have afforded little protection, the weapon gave him some comfort.

They had kissed, touched, a mild making of love, for both found themselves still exhausted, their fatigue preventing emotions reaching any peak; but they were content within each other's arms, happy to talk in low-murmured voices, to explore and to confide. Sleep had not taken too long to overcome them.

Culver had been the first to awake the following morning and had gently untangled himself from Kate's arms; she had stirred, mumbled something, and he had kissed her damp forehead, telling her to sleep on, it was early. Culver had walked off to relieve himself, carrying the axe as a precaution; now that it was daylight he was more cautious of rabid animals than of rats.

Near the centre of the park he had found a partly-demolished shelter. Ridiculously modest, he had stepped inside and was unzipping his jeans when the stench hit him. He took a step back in disgust and his foot slipped on something wet. His stomach heaved when he searched the gloom beneath him.

The people might have taken shelter just before the bombs had dropped - it had been around lunchtime and the park would have been crowded - or they might have crawled and staggered there afterwards.

The corpses, what was left of them, were in one stagnant heap, spreading over the floor like a bulky, rumpled carpet. Yet the bodies were alive with movement. Greyish-white movement.

The maggots must have consumed most of the flesh, yet still they wriggled among the bones, forming glistening patterns in their well-ordered, almost ritual quest for sustenance.

He fled from the shelter, holding his mouth as though

unwilling to further defile their mausoleum with his own vomit The sickness poured from him in gut-wrenching spurts. And even when his stomach was empty, the muscles there still contracted painfully, expelling empty air as if purging more than just bile from his body. It was a long time before he was able to stagger away and find another place to relieve himself.

The park itself was littered with debris blown into it from surrounding buildings and, even though it was in a sheltered position, no tree, bush, or blade of grass had been left unscathed. He avoided swarms of gross insects, knowing they bred among corpses. The mist was rising more rapidly, for the ground and ruins were becoming dry despite the weeks of heavy rainfall. Culver shakily made his way back to the fallen tree he and Kate had nestled beneath.

He was surprised to find her gone and assumed she had wandered back to the others around the campfire, thinking he had done the same. Following on, and pondering over their plan for the day (in an effort to shut the crawling tomb from his mind), Culver heard the voices before catching sight of the intruders. Something in their tone warned him that they were not friendly.

Culver crouched low, the mist still thick enough to conceal him unless he got too close. He saw them and tension filled him, easily dismissing the earlier memory. He watched as the tall black man, garbed in a ridiculous see-through raincoat, touched Kate, and Culver's hand clenched tight around the axe. Jackson sprang at the man when he held a knife against Kate's cheek, sending him to the ground, and then was himself attacked by two others.

The black stranger shouted something and Jackson was dragged towards the ashes of the fire. The girl had been

knocked down and her assailant had turned his back towards him before Culver realized what was about to happen.

Jackson's face was only inches away from the smouldering embers when anger - more than just anger: it was a ferocity that filled every extremity of his body and sent seething pulses through his head - spilled from Culver in a silent scream, making his whole body tremble, his lips baring to reveal clenched teeth, a grimace of sheer hatred. Hadn't they been through enough without their own kind, survivors like themselves, subjecting them to this perverse treatment? Hadn't the destruction taught them anything? Had the madness only bred fresh madness? He restrained the cry and silently ran forward.

Culver was among them before they were even aware of his approach; the tall black man still had his back to him.

At last releasing the cry, Culver swung the axe in a sideways arc and the metal head cut deep into the raincoated man's spine, severing it completely. He had to tug hard to pull the axe free.

Royston screamed, a high, animal sound, his arms splaying outwards, throwing the weapons. He collapsed immediately and lay prone on the ground, unable to move, able only to die. His hands and feet twitched convulsively and a whining came from his scabbed lips.

Culver did not linger; his next target was one of the men holding Jackson over the ashes, a man who wore a red handkerchief around his forehead. The edge of the axe caught him beneath the chin, snapping his head upwards, toppling him onto the hot embers. Culver felt something thwack against his leather jacket and saw the other man pointing a gun at him. It occurred to him in an instant that he had been shot, yet there had been no gunfire and no pain.

He swung the axe again; the gun fell as the intruder who had brandished it clutched a fractured wrist.

Jackson fell face forward into the ashes and rolled over screaming, embers glowing in his dark skin.

Culver could not help him: there were too many of the enemy to contend with. He ducked as a rifle aimed at him, feeling a stinging along his cheek. The man with the rifle rushed him, using the weapon as a club.

Fairbank took advantage of the distraction. He grabbed the axe still lying nearby, bringing the blunt end up into the stomach of one of his guards. The other received the sharp end across the bridge of his nose.

The fat man holding Dene released the pellet from the air-pistol into the engineer's temple. Dene sank to his knees, hands clasping at the wound. He slumped face forward to the ground and lay there silent and still. The fat man hastily snapped open the weapon and pushed in another pellet.

Ellison attempted to run from the three men coming towards him. They easily caught him and he lashed out with fists and feet, but quickly succumbed to their concerted assault.

Catching sight of the man rushing towards Culver, Dealey threw his arms around the passing legs. The would-be assailant fell heavily and Culver stepped forward and brought a foot down hard against the back of his head. Something crunched and he hoped it was the man's nose; better still, his neck. He quickly scanned the chaos, the axe poised before him to ward off further attack.

Kate was dragging Jackson out of the fire, slapping burning embers from his face. Fairbank had just hacked at the leg of a fat man who had been waving an air-pistol in the air, his target undecided. The gun went off, the phut heard over the screams of the women and the excited barking of the dogs; a gusher of blood had erupted from his thigh. The injured man went down - on one leg, whimpering as he tried to stem the flow. Three other men and women stared with uncertain looks; the attack on them had been so swift and so devastating that they were perplexed. And now they, too, were afraid.

It was the blonde woman with the blue silk scarf and long skirt who broke the deadlock: with a screeching roar, she threw herself at Culver. Jagged fingernails tore at his face, only his up-flung arm protecting his eyes from serious injury. They went down in a struggling heap, Culver's back sending up a shower of ashes.

The three men advanced, spurred on by the woman's fury. Fairbank was suddenly before them, brandishing his axe, slapping the metal head against the palm of his hand, challenging them to come closer. They hesitated, lifting their own weapons, an iron bar, a pickaxe handle, and a knife. Their progress was more cautious.

Culver brought a knee up hard between the woman's legs, sending her over him. She writhed on the other side of the ashes, sucking in air, but already scrambling to get back at him. Culver pushed himself up, embers falling from his leather jacket, and half turned to meet the attack. Her screwed-up face was only a foot away and, still unbalanced, he struck his fist into it, following through and rolling clear of the heat. His knuckles were bloody when he regained his feet.

He saw Fairbank ward off an iron bar with the axe. Another man was about to bring a stout piece of wood down on the engineer's unprotected head. Culver took two paces and leapt, twisting his body so that it struck the assailant sideways on. They fell together and Culver was on his feet instantly; his boot caught the prone man on the chin. A third,

knife-wielding, man backed away, reluctant to become involved. The two coloured girls were clinging to each other and shrieking, keeping well clear of the fight. Culver turned to help Fairbank and saw that the man with the iron bar had also disengaged from the fray for the moment. Fairbank's smile was uninviting.

Culver joined him and said quietly, We'd better get away from here while we can.'

That's a fact,' Fairbank replied.

They quickly observed the plight of their companions; Ellison appeared to be in the worst trouble.

'Dealey, help Kate,' Culver ordered. 'Start running, towards the river. You know where to go.'

Dealey rose and stumbled towards Kate, who was kneeling beside Jackson, still brushing ash from his face. The three men beating Ellison were caught unawares as Culver and Fairbank laid into them. Two went down immediately, although not seriously hurt; the third staggered back as Fairbank struck him with his left fist. Culver and Fairbank scooped up Ellison and dragged him after their retreating companions.

'Dene!' Fairbank shouted.

Culver glanced around and found the prostrate body of the young engineer. 'Keep going, I'll check him out.'

Fairbank, axe raised in his right hand, his left supporting Ellison, staggered away while the pilot hurried over to Dene's limp form. He knelt and turned the engineer over onto his side. Death was now familiar enough to be easily recognized.

Footsteps approached and he looked up to see the assailant with the iron bar bearing down on him. He threw the axe and it struck the man in the chest, although not blade-first; the impetus, however, was enough to bring a halt to the attack. The iron bar fell to the ground as the man clutched his chest, his legs beginning to buckle.

Culver was up and running again, racing through the ravaged park and wishing the mist had not thinned out so much; its cover would have been welcome. He caught up with the others and relieved Kate of the severely burnt maintenance engineer, who was groaning aloud. Dealey was supporting Jackson on the other side. They moved as quickly as possible, a stumbling, awkward run, passing the maggot-filled tomb Culver had come upon earlier, skirting around empty tennis courts, the wire fencing surrounding them strangely untouched by the blasts.

Jackson tripped, went down, almost dragged Culver and Dealey with him.

'Keep going!' Culver yelled at the others, waving Kate away. They'll be coming after us!'

*We must hide,' Dealey said as they lifted Jackson to his feet.

'Soon as we put some distance between us,' Culver told him.

Rubble spilled down from varying heights to meet the edge of the park and they found themselves climbing, choosing the lower valleys, uneven passes in the debris. Culver noticed that one of Jackson's eyes was completely closed and a large part of his face had been burned raw; there were darker lumps enmeshed in his skin, pieces of charcoal that had seared their way through to the flesh beneath and become affixed there. His left shoulder was covered in blood. At the top of a rise, Culver turned to see if they really were being followed. Running figures were just visible in the swirling mist. He dropped into the ravine below, helping Jackson, aware that he had been seen: one of the figures had stopped and pointed at him.

Another sight had been engrained on his mind: the fallen city, just mounds of broken earth and shorn buildings rising

above the low-lying, drifting mist, like clipped mountains above clouds.

For Kate and Alex Dealey, it was the clearest view of the destroyed capital they had yet had, and for the first time the enormity of what had happened struck them like a physical blow. Dazed, and more deeply disturbed than ever before, they staggered on through the hollows and dips, over the ridges and huge concrete outcrops. The heat made their exertions exhausting, their bodies soon becoming soaked with perspiration. Even the dust they stirred up in their flight contrived to choke and slow them. Glass fragments shimmered in the wreckage like glittering diamonds caught in the sun's rays, the wispy vapours unable to hold back the light completely.

Culver's bitten ankle was hurting like hell and he knew it was not sweat seeping through the bandage and sock. At one stage he put a hand to the stinging in his cheek and his fingers came away bloody. He knew he had sustained other injuries in the struggle, but he would discover what they were later - if there was a later for any of them.

Kate cried out when she missed her footing, but hobbled on, too afraid even to look back.

The valley ahead widened out and Culver knew they must be in what was once a broad thoroughfare leading to the Aldwych; beyond that was Waterloo Bridge and the river. Fairly close to that was the only place he felt they could be safe.

But at this rate, he knew they were not going to make it.

'In here!'

Culver pointed at the opening, a hole created by a large concrete slab leaning crazily against a shop-front. Much of the building above the shop had slid down the chunk of concrete and around its sides; the gap was formed between the slab and a landslide of rubble. Culver and Dealey helped Jackson, who was still moaning with pain, while Fairbank held on to Ellison, whose steps were still unsteady after the beating he had taken.

They made for the opening as Culver quickly scanned the landscape behind. He couldn't see their pursuers, but he could hear them: a pack of screaming banshees, howling for blood. Revenge was all they had, their only motivation; that and survival.

Dealey hesitated at the entrance. 'It isn't safe in here. The whole structure is loose, unstable.'

Culver gave him a shove. Take Jackson, follow the others. Waste one more second and the mob'll see us.'

Dealey reluctantly did as instructed, bearing the whole of the black engineer's weight, both of them crouching to get through the gap. The pilot backed his way in, eyes on the route behind them. He ducked from view when the first head came into sight over a small crest of debris, praying he hadn't been observed. They had been lucky earlier, his attack taking

the intruders by surprise and effective only because of that surprise. This time these people were not out to steal or torment or question: they were out to kill.

Dust sifted down, blinding him for a moment. He brushed it away, blinking rapidly. Something creaked above him, then concrete ground against concrete. Dealey was right: the whole place was ready to collapse.

He moved further in, the figures of his companions barely visible in the dim light Something shifted around them. The groans of a dying building. No, the reflex spasms of a building already dead. Pounding rain had worked on the remains over the weeks, weakening it further, changing broken concrete into pulpy mush. He could hear water dripping all around.

Voices from outside. Culver and the others froze, listening. Shouts, angry and something more. Excited.

Eager for the chase. A new sport born out of the chaos. The human hunt.

'Keep still!' he hissed and they, the hunted, did not move.

Dealey breathed in dust and putridity and wondered what lay about them in the darkness. He squinted his eyes, peering into the gloom, knowing they were inside a shop for beyond the opening they had stepped over a short sill, the edge of which must have been a display window. In the distance, far at the back of the shop, he could see a glimmer of light Another opening, a means of escape, at least. He could just make out broken display racks and the littered floor beneath them. Ah, a bookshop. He knew the one, had browsed through it in ... in better times. What value the written word now?

Jackson groaned beside him and Dealey could feel a new wetness sinking into his own clothing, a sticky flowing that had nothing to do with his own body damp. The engineer was bleeding over him. He shifted, repulsed by the seepage, and Jackson groaned aloud. Frightened the sounds could be heard outside, Dealey clamped a hand to the injured man's mouth. Jackson's semi-closed eyes opened wide with the sudden sharp increase of pain in his charred lips; he screamed against the darkness and pushed against whoever was trying to stifle him. He was free and terribly afraid.

There were moving shadows all around, hands reaching for him, fingers touching his burnt skin. He screamed again, and tried to escape. Something tried to hold him; he knocked it away. He had to get out. There was a light, an opening. He had to get through it There were rats down in the shelter! Large black rats! Rats that could tear a man to pieces! He had to get out!

Culver lunged at the distraught engineer, knowing it was already too late, that those outside could not have failed to have heard. Mad with pain and panic, Jackson threw the pilot to one side, intent only on reaching the source of light, desperate to escape the dark hole in the ground where he could smell the burning of his own flesh and hear the screeching and scuffling of night creatures. He staggered towards the triangle of light, slipping on objects scattered on the floor, almost falling over more bulky shapes lying in the dust.

He was nearly there and already the air seemed cleaner. He sobbed with relief. But he could see shapes coming through, figures filling the opening, blocking the light, taking away the clean air. There were shouts and they reminded him of earlier sounds, the jeering as his face had been lowered into the heat, the sneering curses of men and women who had become worse than rabid animals, who had become like the vermin that roamed the underground world, mutilating not just to live, but for the pleasure it gave them. He