Simon Spurrier - The Culled

So I stopped thinking about the pain in my arse and ignored the voice growling – no, shrieking – in my skull:

Don't you fucking give up, soldier!

Dull, dull, dull.

The ferry docked. The trucks rolled off. Someone shouted at someone else.

Gulls wheeled overhead on smoky updrafts. A hundred miles south and east, a bunch of dead Iroquois were going hard in the sun.

The chopper headed back across the lake. Somewhere in the distance came a short burst of gunfire, and I figured the goons must have found a local or two after all. The chopper wheeled off on a new course, vanishing into the smoke.

Time stretched on.

My arse continued to hurt.

In my head, Rick continued to tumble backwards, smiling.

Malice continued to sink and burn beneath the waters.

Spuggsy squished, Tora dragged off to be squabbled-over by human animals, Moto shot.

Bella screaming and thumping like a boneless doll against the insides of the pla "You think they'll kill us?"

Nate was looking at me. There was something like… pleading, in his eyes. Something that cut through all the shit, all the anger at how he'd used me, tagged along to get his fix, lied. Something that whispered frostily in my ear:

But didn't you use him too?

"Yeah," I said, not unkindly. "Probably."

I looked back at the monument. It was something to stare at, I guess. Didn't move, didn't change: just stood there, defying the wind, a granite prick raping the sk "Whoa," said Nate.

The monument moved.

At the top, the tip of the great upturned basilica creaked, squealed in protest, then opened.

"Well there's a thing," I mumbled.

It was like a flower blossoming. Petals rattling into place, unoiled pistons groaning deep inside the rock. Without being entirely sure when it changed from one to the other, I suddenly wasn't looking at an enormous phallus any more.

I was looking at a bloody gigantic broadcasting dish.

And then Cy was standing in front of me, sneering.

"Time to go," he rasped.

With each new room, a new calamity of memory. A new disastrous, deadly (wonderful) explosion of sights and smells and sounds, bubbling-up from the past, like liquid pouring into a mould; taking its time to slip into the deepest recesses.

Or, like dust blowing free from a hidden treasure.

Like cataracts dissolving.

His Holiness the Abbot John-Paul Rohare Baptiste allowed his minions to wheel him through the great, secret facility beneath South Bass Island, saying nothing, and felt his memories slither back one by one. They gathered pace the deeper he went, with each new level, each new string of concrete walls, each new dim light fixture that flickered and illuminated as it sensed movement.

Until eventually he remembered it all, like it had just been yesterday.

He'd arrived here, on the Island, five years ago: angry and bitter. It was below him, he'd thought. A man of his experience – of his record – sent to keep an eye on a bunch of backroom nerds.

Sergeant John P. Miller, the reassignment form had said. NATO Liaison Officer.

It should have said: fucking nursemaid.

But still the facility had been a pleasant surprise. Hidden away beneath the monument, below vaults supposedly for the Lake Eerie dead – in fact crammed with generators and feeds from the solar panels above – down creaking elevator shafts and plunging stairwells. Always the drip-drip-drip of condensed water.

Oh-so-very exciting. Oh-so-very impressive. It almost made up for the ignominy.

Here and now in the present, his assistants wheeled him past doors marked LAB#1, LAB#2, LAB#3…

He didn't like using the chair – it created the wrong impression – but it'd been an exhausting journey from the city and he wasn't as spry as he was. He was forty nine years old. He looked approximately seventy.

This was living with anaphylaxis. Constant pain.

This was living with AIDS, and more drugs than he could count administered by Clergy-doctors who'd have their testicles ripped-off and fed to them if they breathed a word to anyone.

This was three anti-coagulation shots every day, and antihistamine solutions three times a week.

This was the AB-Virus, eating his blood cells every second, staved-off only by communing with the divine.

This was living by numbers.

This place, it'd been a nuclear bunker once. So his superiors told him. Secondary or tertiary governmental; an alternative to the presidential chambers beneath Washington and NY. Somewhere safe to rule an irradiated country. Somewhere cosy for a ragged government to sip clean water and make comforting addresses.

The whole thing had been converted at short-notice to the requirements of the UN team. Dormitories and armouries stripped-out, curious equipment shipped-in for days on end. 'Project Pandora', they'd called it. An international attempt to stop the virus in its steps.

Out loud, as his wheelchair squeaked its way down the ramp to the sub-third floor, he mumbled:

"When all the evil spills out, there's still a… glimmer of hope…"

Pandora's box.

His chief minder must have heard him. An effete man named Marcus, good for very little but wheeling a chair and kissing arse, he gave John-Paul a concerned glance and crouched down to address him, unintentionally condescending. John-Paul approved of ignorance and ineffectuality. The soldiery were all very well; the cardinals and their units served a purpose, but one couldn't trust them. They were too full of their own ideas. Too focused.

"Your holiness?" The man said softly. "Did you say something?"

"Mm? No, no…" he closed his eyes and let the memories absorb him again, enjoying the concern on the man's face. "Everything's fine, Marcus."

He remembered wondering, at the time, why they'd sent the team here. Why not to some scholarly lab in New York? Why not out in the open?

And then the riots had started. They'd listened to the news every day before work, gathered together in the social-room. Riots and police actions and union strikes, and embassies closing-down at a rate of knots.

Then the diplomatic wrangling.

Then the rumours of Def Con escalation.

Then the standoffs and false alarms and real-actual-genuine-fear-of-Armageddon type talks, and suddenly everyone was living in a bad disaster film, and Sergeant John P. Miller became very very grateful indeed that his superiors had sent him deep underground.

Even then, he'd been bored out of his brain. The team's progress was just so slow.

No – correction: the team's progress was non-existent. It just happened to take them forever to find out how impotent they were.

Outside the world went to hell in a handcart, and inside… inside test-tubes clinked and microscopes whirred and men and women in white lab-coats made fussy notes with fussy biros. A lot of them had families. A lot of them looked unwell.

More rooms glided past the wheelchair, now circuiting the fifth level. COMMS, RESOURCES, the door names went, RECORDS, STUDIO, ENGINEERING…

The place was enormous. He remembered thinking that, too, all those years ago. Far too big for the research team. They'd set themselves up in their little corners and got on with it, and with nothing to do but file reports that said 'NO PROGRESS' he'd taken to wandering, exploring, poking in the dark.

A mothballed war room, with its displays darkened and tactical consoles disconnected.

A water purification plant.

A dozen storerooms marked NON-PERISHABLE. All empty.

And the communications room. And the broadcast suite.

And the Presidential Address studio. Plush red and blue walls. Elegantly draped flags. TV cameras jacketed in plastic wraps and rubber covers.

That was it. That was what brought him back here, now. In the flash of a triggered memory – those records unearthed from the Secretariat, presented to him by Cardinal Cy even as the doctors fussed over his bleeding skull – he'd remembered the place, the resources, the cameras and broadcasting equipment and security.