Hellgate London - Exodus Part 9

"They're not crossing the Channel?"

"Not yet. But the French army is ma.s.sed up there. Got a skirmish line. I don't think it's going to do them any more good than it did the British. But this man I know, he isn't selling seats to getinto England; he's selling seats to getout. I'll tell him you'll help work as security on the way over. But you can bet he'll put a boot in your a.r.s.e if you try to come back." Simon nodded. "All right."

Horner offered his hand. "Then we got a deal. Kiss your friend good-bye tonight and come see me in the morning. Six o'clock. If you're late, me and your money are on our way north."

Horner's plane was an old military cargo transport that looked like it had seen better days, but the props spun smoothly and the engines sounded strong. A blonde in sungla.s.ses and a bikini was spray-painted beneath the pilot's window.

Saundra held Simon's hand as they stopped a few feet short of the gangway leading up to the cargo hold. He turned to face her.

"I guess this is good-bye," he said, feeling terribly awkward. He suddenly didn't know what to say.

When they'd first met, it had been like that. Not sure of what to say or not to say. But in the last year and a half, they'd come to know each other well. She was the best friend he'd had, even counting his shield mates-the boys he'd grown up with-back in the Underground. She'd understood him in ways that he'd never thought anyone would.

And he was about to lose all that. Maybe forever.

It was hard to deal with, something that he truly hadn't understood until just this moment. He wavered, thinking that it was already too late in London and that his presence there wouldn't matter. That made the most sense. What could one man do? He'd be better served staying with Saundra and trying to keep his own skin intact.

Except he couldn't do that. His father's constant brainwashing from the time he'd been born wouldn't allow him to do that. He had to go, to see if anything could be done and to find out what had become of his father.

But I don't have to die there.It felt good deciding that.

Saundra smiled at Simon, but the effort looked a little frayed around the edges.

"Not good-bye," Saundra said. "Just *See you later.' When you get a chance, let me know how you are."

"I will." She'd already given him her father's call signs on the shortwave radio.

"Maybe I'll come see you," Saundra said. "After the military sends the aliens packing. I've always wanted to see London."

Simon thought of all the crumbled buildings he'd seen in the news footage.There doesn't seem to be much of it left. But he nodded. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her good-bye.

It was hard letting go, but he made himself. Squaring his shoulders, redistributing his backpack, he squeezed her hand a final time and headed up the gangway.

The cargo hold was jammed with supplies and people. Horner's grizzled payload master took one look at Simon and cursed. "I heard you were a big one, mate, but Lord love a duck." He consulted his clipboard and started moving the pa.s.sengers around, balancing the weight.

Feeling awkward the way he often did when he got trapped in large groups of people, Simon sat against the side of the plane, taking a seat on the metal floor and dropping his backpack in front of him between his knees.

He leaned back, resting against the vibrating surface. He hadn't slept much last night. Not knowing if he'd ever see Saundra again had made the last few hours they'd had together even more special-and desperate. A headache dawned between his eyes and he tried to relax. He hated flying with someone else at the wheel.

A moment later, he realized he was being stared at.

Opening his eyes, he caught a glimpse of a young woman seated on the other side of the cargo area as she looked away from him. She acted as though she'd only been glancing around, but Simon knew he'd felt the weight of her gaze on him.

He didn't recognize her. She was tall and slender, athletic, not fragile, dressed in jeans and a simple blouse. She wore hiking shoes and had a backpack on the ground in front of her. Her brunette hair was so dark it was almost black, but it was cut close to her head. Her eyes, Simon remembered, were a deep violet. Striking, memorable eyes. He knew he would have remembered seeing her before if he had.

So why are you interested in me?Then Simon realized he was being paranoid, or maybe even egotistical. Everyone in the cargo area was staring at everyone else.

The man to Simon's right spoke up. "h.e.l.lo." He offered a hand.

Simon took it, but didn't say anything. He didn't feel like conversation.

"Philip," the man said. "Philip Torrance." He looked like a salesman, dressed in a white shirt and slacks.

He was in his thirties or forties, tanned and fit. "Simon Cross."

"How far are you going? If you don't mind my asking." "London."

The man frowned. "You do realize the plane doesn't go that far?" "Yes."

"I'd heard there was a way to get to England from France, but I'm not interested in doing that. Too dangerous. I'm going to take up a support position. They've got a lot of people coming out of England. I want to do what I can to help."

Simon nodded. As he looked around, he wondered how many people were interested in going to London. He was aware of the violet-eyed young woman watching him again.

The engines suddenly whined louder, filling the cargo area with noise. The loadmaster and his three a.s.sistants plopped down onto the floor against the wall. The crates and bags behind the cargo netting in the rear of the compartment shook and vibrated. A moment later, the plane lurched forward as the pilot released the brakes.

Laying his head back, Simon closed his eyes and wondered if he was doing the right thing. His father was doubtless dead, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. So what was there waiting for him in London?

A chill filled the cargo area as the plane closed on the last few miles of the final leg of its journey. When Simon breathed out now he could see his breath, pale gray in the barely moving air.

Wrapped in a blanket, he sat against the cold metal of the bulkhead and tried to sleep. Normally, no matter what was going on, he could at least count on sleep. And all he'd done for the last three days of the flight was stress and worry.

They'd gotten news secondhand for the most part. Radios didn't pick up signals inside the cargo hold, and they were never at the fuel depots much longer than to pick up fuel and sandwiches. Both of which were way overpriced.

Stories continued to filter out of London, but they were tales of horror. The city remained wreathed in smoke, burning constantly.

A short time later, the cargo team pa.s.sed out self-heating tins of beef stew.

Simon sat cross-legged and pulled the tab that activated the chemical reaction that heated the stew. He breathed the scent of the stew in as he waited for the contents to reach temperature. His stomach rumbled in antic.i.p.ation.

The cargo team also pa.s.sed out chunks of bread and bottles of water.

Gnawing on the bread, Simon chewed it thoroughly. If he didn't, he'd found during an earlier meal, the bread would lie like a congealed lump in his stomach. He sipped the water.

The young woman watched him through the fringe of hair that hung down over her eyes. Even though Simon couldn't see her eyes, he knew she was watching. He just didn't know why.

He peeled the stubby spoon from around the mug-shaped can and snapped it out straight. When the stew had cooled sufficiently, he spooned it up, emptying the contents too quickly. He turned his attention back to the bread.

The young woman leaned forward, extending her tin toward Simon. "Are you still hungry?" Simon didn't say anything, but his stomach rumbled at the prospect of more food.

"I'm through with this."

Reaching forward, Simon took the tin, then offered it to a young mother and baby to his left. He'd watched them during the trip, noting that the mother sometimes looked tired and still hungry after their meager allotment.

The woman hesitated, then nodded her thanks. Simon didn't think she knew English, but he wasn't sure what her native tongue might be. She took the tin from him, darting a quick, furtive glance at the young woman.

The young woman turned her violet eyes back to Simon. "My name's Leah. Leah Creasey." Feeling a little awkward because he'd taken the woman's offering, Simon gave her his name. Leah brushed a lock of dark hair back behind her ear. "You're going to London?"

"Yes."

"So am I."

Simon didn't say anything.

"I don't know anyone else who is," Leah said.

As far as Simon knew, no one else intended to go to London. Or any part of England. They were all hoping to find survivors in the refugee camps in northern France.

"Do you have a way to get there?" "Maybe."

"Can I come with you?"

Simon studied the woman for a moment. She looked slim and compact, more of an acrobat than an athlete. He felt certain Saundra could have taken her hands down in a physical encounter. He knew he didn't want any baggage trailing along after him when he reached London. Or even during the trip there.

He was headed into a war zone. "Please." Leah's voice softened.

Hardening his heart, telling himself that the woman's welfare was no concern of his, Simon started to say no.

"It's my father," Leah went on. Her violet eyes gleamed wetly. "After my mother died, we only had each other." She drew in a quick breath to calm herself. "I got mad at him a few months ago. I had no business doing that. He put me through university, then wondered why I wasn't working at a job I'd trained for. Marketing. I ended up back in the same dress shop I'd worked my way through university in. Ended up barely making the bills again. Almost starving to death. He told me he didn't see to it that I got all that training only to see it go to waste."

The words. .h.i.t home inside Simon, cutting deeply. They were a lot like the final words he'd had with his own father before he'd picked up and gone to South Africa. Simon had received Templar training all his life, and his father had rebuked him for squandering it with his excesses in extreme sports. The base-jumping had been the final straw.

"I tried to tell him that jobs weren't that easy to come by," Leah said. "But he wouldn't listen." She wiped at her eyes and wetness gleamed on her fingers. "So I got a job, only it was down in South Africa and he didn't like that, either. By that time I was mad, and I'd already signed off on my flat. All my money was tied up in moving to South Africa and making it in that job."

Simon felt the weight of his own decision settling across his shoulders. It hadn't been easy. And he knew exactly what Leah had gone through.

"That was fourteen months ago," Leah whispered raggedly. "I haven't been back to see my father since.

If something's happened to him-" Her voice broke and she couldn't continue speaking.

Simon tried to figure out what to say but couldn't. Leah's fears were his own, and he didn't know how to deal with his own.

Angrily, with a trace of embarra.s.sment, Leah slid away from him and resumed her place on the other side of the plane.

For a while, Simon tried to listen to the plane's engines and the other whispered conversations around him. He wanted something to take away the guilt and fear that plagued him.She's not my problem. But he felt like she was. She'd touched his emotions and made him realize how raw they were.

"Maybe your father made it out of London," Simon said after a while. "He could be in one of the refugee camps."

Leah ignored him. She turned on her side and pulled a worn coat up over her head, shutting him out. Simon leaned back against the bulkhead and closed his eyes. Her father might have made it out of London. Several thousand had. But Simon knew his father would never leave. Grudgingly, his stomach partially full, he drifted off to sleep.

But the demons waited on him there.

Nine.

REFUGEECAMP OUTSIDEPARIS, FRANCE.

Simon only stayed in Paris for sixteen hours, long enough to secure pa.s.sage to Coquelles, not far from Calais. A heavy blanket of snow lay over the French countryside. Most of the meteorologists seemed to think it had something to do with the strange weather and power that seemed to gather over London.

On the tri-dee, storms roared through London's streets without interruption, filled with jagged lightning and unaccustomed heat. Some of the reports that got out of the city said that an incredible black fog filled much of the sky and blotted out the sun.

"You're sure you want to go there?" the truck driver asked after Simon had made the deal to help with the cargo in return for them taking him along.

"I need to," Simon said. If he had to, he'd walk through the snow to get to the h.e.l.l on earth dawning in London.

In the back of a cargo truck filled with supplies for the English refugees, Simon sat still and tried to remain warm. He'd arranged pa.s.sage by agreeing to help the truck driver and his second with the loading and off-loading of the supplies. It was backbreaking labor, but they'd added sandwiches and wine as well.

The back of the truck wasn't heated. He'd managed to buy a heavy winter coat, gloves, and a watchcap with some of the money he had left. There hadn't been enough money left over to purchase a pistol and ammunition although he'd wanted some kind of armament.

Not that it would do any good against the demons.

His breath fogged out in front of him. Cases and buckets rattled in their restraints as the driver drove. Through the flaps at the rear of the truck, snow continued to come down in thick, fat flakes. Pristine whiteness, lit up by the moon, already covered the landscape.

Without warning, the truck jerked violently to one side. Boxes tumbled across each other and crates skidded across the metal floor.

Simon shoved both arms out, managing to span the rear compartment of the truck and brace himself as boxes fell all over him with bruising force. For a moment he thought the driver was going to lose his vehicle.

When the truck finally stopped, Simon pushed the supplies off and stood up. He stepped over the tailgate and down to the ground.

The driver and the handler stood at the front of the truck, gazing glumly down at the shredded left front tire. The driver cursed beautifully, and with real feeling.

"What happened?" Simon asked in French.

"I don't know. It just went out from under me. Lucky I didn't crash us into a tree and kill us both."

The truck had left the road and plowed through the newly fallen snow. The fluffy whiteness came almost to the top of the truck's hood. A deep path led back to the road.

"Hey." The handler pointed down the road at a pair of approaching headlights. "Someone's coming." The driver returned to the truck cab and brought out a roadside flare. He triggered the ignition and a blaze of sparks carved a hole out of the darkness before settling down to a deep ruby glow. He tossed it onto the road.

Simon waited, but he stood apart from the other two men. There were more good stories to tell at the moment than bad ones, but the tales of thieves and murderers still ran rampant. If the people in the other truck intended to do them harm, Simon felt he still had a chance to escape cross-country. He could survive in the harsh climate.

He stood silently at the truck's side, taking advantage of the shadows. The vehicle was another truck from Paris. The new arrival was loaded up with supplies as well.

Leah Creasey sat inside the cab, but she got out with the driver. She looked swallowed up by the big coat she wore.

The drivers quickly sized up the situation, then the man who'd driven the wrecked truck came back to Simon.

"The truck," the man said, "isn't going to go anywhere. Even with the winch on the other truck, we're more likely to get them stuck as well. Jacques and I will stay with the truck, but the other driver has offered to take you the rest of the way."

Simon studied the older man's face. Everything in Simon screamed to go, not remain stuck here. But that wasn't how his father had brought him up. He'd been brought up to keep his word, and now-in the face of everything going on in London-that seemed important to do.

"I said I'd help you unload the truck in exchange for the ride," Simon replied in French.

The driver waved the offer away. "It will be hours, perhaps days, before anyone arrives to help us, my young friend. You've said you have family in the refugee camps. Go. Go and take care of your family."