Someone started shouting. "Lane! Sophia! You know there's no way out!"
Lane's eyes went wide with genuine surprise, and he coughed out a laugh. "Major Higgins, is that really you? Haven't you retired and gone to play polo into your twilight years? You old goat, I can't believe they sent you after us!"
"Come out, Lane," the man shouted.
"So where's Cole?" Lane answered.
"I have no idea!"
Lane gave the "wanker" sign to Sophia, and she laughed and nodded, returning an imitation of fellatio. "Sophia says you're a cock sucker!" Lane shouted, ducking as Sophia threw a chunk of masonry at him.
Tom could not believe the surreality of the scene. They were about to be machine-gunned to death—and he'd bet his life that these soldiers were from Porton Down, armed with silver bullets and a knowledge of what they were up against—and here were the berserkers making jokes.
Short memory, Natasha whispered. Remember Dan and Sarah?
Tom nodded. Yes, he remembered them. But what could two berserkers do against twenty armed, ready and vengeful soldiers? They would take a few with them perhaps, but not all.
Another burst of gunfire continued tearing the unit apart. Tom held onto Natasha, smelling her musty odour and feeling her tiny movements against his body. Something scratched at his chest and he pulled up, disgusted and amazed. Now? She wanted feeding now? But he looked at Sophia and Lane again, saw what was happening, and he understood why.
At last they were changing. Until now they had been under control, but Sophia was shaking, her legs quivering as they seemed to stretch out behind her, and Lane's eyes were closed, jaw thickening and lips cracked and bleeding. The berserker had dropped his gun and Tom looked at it, wondering whether he could reach it without getting his arm blown off. Probably not. But still, the option was there.
Lane turned to look at him, and his eyes were red. "Hands off!" he said. Tom shrank back.
The gunfire broke off again, Higgins shouted, and that was when the first scream rose up from outside.
Tom was shaking. His toes tapped at the ground, his arms jittered where he supported himself on his elbows, and his body trembled as if in the throes of a virulent fever. He was sweating, too, dripping onto Natasha and speckling the smooth concrete floor. He tried to keep his eyes closed, but the images behind them were too painful to keep them shut; Jo lying dead across his lap, Steven as a boy, keen to play at soldiers. So he opened his eyes to escape those images, only to give himself more terrible sights to forever remember. The dead man had been struck by several bullets, and blood and insides had splashed up onto the wall behind him. The dead woman's leg had been blown off. Lane and Sophia continued to hide behind the woodworking machinery, still changing, making light of their predicament as the screaming rose in volume from outside.
More gunfire, but this time it was not directed at them.
And Tom was angry. It was an anger he had never felt before, not even ten years ago when he had first been told of Steven's death. He was not even sure where it came from, but he supposed it was a combination of everything that had happened to him, a livid stew made from Jo's death, Natasha's sad history, Cole's pursuit, the bullet still lodged somewhere in his back, the two dead people splayed across the floor beside him now, their blood filling tiny cracks and scrapes in the concrete, spreading out, forming a map of their pain. Their blood. Their blood.
Tom stopped shaking, stared at the mess on the floor and had a sudden desire to lap it up.
The screams and gunfire outside were joined by something else—roars and screeches that he recognised from Natasha's memories.
Daddy, she said beneath him, I still can't change. Her voice was so wretched that it pulled Tom back from whatever precipice he was leaning over. He raised himself up and looked down at the girl. Her mouth was bloodied, his chest dripping, and her body wavered continuously as if seen through a heat haze.
"What's out there? Just those two children?"
Dan and Sarah, all grown up now. Young and powerful and angry!
An explosion complemented the gunfire. Tom risked a look around the corner of the bench, the anger rising again, ready to drown him. He gasped and swallowed, making sure he could still breathe. His legs and arms ached from supporting himself for so long, his face throbbed, and the only part of his body that seemed not to hurt was his back.
Tracer rounds tore across the car park. The stolen BMW was a mass of flames and several bodies lay around it, their uniforms simmering and catching fire in the heat. One of them crawled feebly away from the flames, hair and fatigues smoking and then igniting.
A soldier darted past the front of the unit, and for an instant Tom wanted to run him down, punch him, tear at him until he died.
A shadow followed. A shadow that growled. The soldier's scream came from out of sight, but it did not last very long.
Two soldiers backed away across the car park, heading for the ivy-covered fence from where Lane and Sophia had first emerged. They took turns firing their weapons and reloading, and though panicked they seemed to have some level of control over their fear. One of them was covered in blood; it did not seem to be his own.
Tom looked at the blood, and saliva flooded his mouth. "What's happening to me?" he said, but nobody answered. He looked at Sophia and Lane, and though the change had shifted their bodies from the norm, they seemed to have reined in their full berserker rage. Lane had picked up his pistol and inserted a new magazine, while Sophia was reloading the rifle with shells from her pocket. Neither of them looked at him or Natasha. For some reason, they seemed to have turned serious.
There was another burst of sustained gunfire and Tom glanced outside. The two soldiers were standing back to back, both shooting at things out of sight. Their magazines seemed to run out at the same instant, and a second later shapes darted in from both sides and tore into the men. Their screams were replaced by ripping sounds as the berserkers tore them limb from limb.
"Now, do you think?" Lane said.
"About now, yes," Sophia answered. She turned to Tom. "Join us?"
"Join you where, doing what?"
"We're going outside." So saying, she stood, hefted the rifle and walked toward the front of the unit. She left strange footprints in the bloody sawdust. Lane followed her, crouched low, and Tom was left hiding with Natasha still squirming beneath him.
Take me with you, Daddy, she said, never doubting that he would go.
There was still shooting going on, though not as much as before. Men shouted commands, the crack crack of rifles was punctuated by machine gun fire, screams became less frequent, another huge explosion shook dust from the walls and ceiling and punched against Tom's hands and knees, Sophia's rifle sang out from nearby, a hail of bullets rattled through the unit and struck walls and machines, another shot from the rifle, and then one man started shouting, the same word again and again, "Lane! Lane! Lane!"
"Major!" Lane said, as if greeting an old school friend.
I think it's safe to go now, Natasha said. Tom stood, picked up the girl and walked hesitantly out of the unit. He passed the oak table that had been shot to splinters. Shame. Jo had always liked oak, and …
A soldier lay several feet away, his stomach Tom out and his ripped throat still pulsing blood. Tom leaned his way as death exerted an unbearable gravity.
Not now, Daddy. Not yet.
Tom frowned, shook his head, and that was when he saw the man running toward them.
"You look frightened!" Sophia called out. The major came to a halt twenty feet in front of the unit. He was shaking, panting, one side of his face splashed with blood. He held a pistol in his left hand, but made no attempt to raise it.