Trenchman climbed over the driver partition and took the wheel.
Ignition. Revs. He worked the shift, rocked the vehicle forward/reverse until he jerked the limo clear of the jack. Wheels hit the ground. Sudden traction.
The limo pulled out and swung a wide arc slewing sand.
‘Where we headed?’ asked Akingbola.
‘Out of this fucking desert.’
Trenchman retraced their route as best he could. Visibility down to a couple of yards. Headbeams lit driving sand. The car lurched and rocked. Osborne clung to the passenger dash. Akingbola gripped the stripper pole.
Heavy thud.
‘What was that,’ said Akingbola.
‘Think we left the trunk open.’
Second thud. They looked up.
‘Something on the roof.’
Akingbola reached to pull back the roof window.
‘No,’ said Osborne. ‘Let me.’
He crouched on the passenger seat. He drew his pistol and hit the side window control.
DOWN.
Motor whine. Typhoon wind and blustering sand.
He pulled the Beretta from his chest rig and squirmed out the window. He gripped the doorframe for support.
Something squatting on the roof. A malignant thing glimpsed through the swirling storm. It crouched like a spider, arm poised like it was about to punch through roof metal into the compartment below.
Quick front-sight aim. Instinctual. He pumped the trigger. Six shots, rapid fire. Bullets smacked flesh. Torn muscle. No blood. The creature took the impacts like they were nothing.
It lunged.
Osborne lost his grip on the doorframe and toppled backwards. He hit the sand and rolled.
Trenchman jerked the car to a halt and kicked open the passenger door. He leant out the vehicle, hand outstretched.
‘Get in here. Get off the sand.’
Osborne snatched up his pistol. Scrambled to his feet and ran. He dove into the limo and slammed the door. He hit UP. Motor whine. The window raised halfway, then rotted fingers gripped the glass.
Skull face. Empty sockets. Yellow teeth.
‘Hit it.’
Trenchman stamped the accelerator.
Osborne fired point blank, emptied the clip, shattered the window, blew chunks of skull, jaw and teeth.
The creature released its grip and fell away.
Driver compartment full of gun smoke.
The vehicle sped across the sand, lurched side to side, threw Osborne and Trenchman around.
Osborne reloaded his pistol.
‘What the fuck was that thing?’ muttered Osborne.
Trenchman opened his mouth like he was about to speak. Then the limo hit a bank and rolled. He hit the brakes, but it was too late.
The vehicle on its side. He and Osborne thrown together.
The limo on its roof. Buckling metal, shattering glass.
Gun discharge.
A final roll. The car toppled upright. Suspension rocked to a standstill.
Abrupt silence.
Upholstery dusted with glass. Passenger compartment filled with dust and swirling sand.
Trenchman unsheathed a knife and stabbed the airbag. Shattered nose. He snorted blood. He used his shemagh to mop his mouth and chin.
He turned in his seat.
‘Everyone okay?’
He looked over his shoulder. Akingbola lying on the carpet floor of the passenger compartment. Deep shock. Rifle in his hand, smoke from the barrel, a spent cartridge smouldering on the carpet by his side.
A ragged bullet hole in the upholstery of the driver’s partition.
Osborne sat in the passenger seat, hands clamped over a hole in his belly, blood pooling in his lap.
25
Trenchman unwound the shemagh from Osborne’s neck, balled it up and pressed it to the wound.
‘Hold it tight. It’ll slow the bleeding.’
He helped Osborne press bloody hands to the wadded fabric.
‘There. That should help.’
It was something to do, something to say. The rifle round had ripped a massive hole in the man’s gut. Torn him wide open. Shredded organs. Massive internal haemorrhage. He had a couple of minutes left to live.
‘Hey,’ said Osborne. ‘Akingbola.’
‘What?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Osborne, gesturing to the blood-soaked wound in his belly. ‘Shit happens. Don’t beat yourselves up over it.’
He sat looking out of the shattered windshield. His face was white. Blood on his lips. Eyelids drooped in a terminal drowse.
Trenchman cranked the ignition, tried to get the engine to engage. Weak revs. He gunned the throttle, worked the gears forward/reverse. No traction.
Akingbola leant out the shattered side window, shielded his eyes from swirling sand. The wheels were bedded so deep they were barely visible.
‘We’re not going anywhere.’
Trenchman turned up the air con. He angled dash vents so Osborne got a cool blast on his face.
‘Probably ought to save the battery,’ said Akingbola.
‘For what?’
Osborne watched sand accumulate on the buckled hood of the limo.
‘Infected,’ he murmured. ‘Pretty far gone. Almost rotted down to bone. But smart. Never seen them act that way. Sly. Strong.’
‘Yeah,’ said Trenchman. ‘Swimming around in the sand. I’d call bullshit, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Something new.’
‘You think the fuckers can learn? Evolve?’
‘Maybe there are different types. Maybe we shook a nest of boss-level dudes.’
Osborne took a deep, shuddering breath and sagged in his seat. Then he straightened his back and widened his eyes, like he was trying to stay awake, fighting for a few seconds more life.
‘Red jumpsuit. Notice that? Thing was wearing a red jump suit.’
‘Must be pretty close to the target point. Agency black site. God knows what they were doing out here.’
‘Might be more of the bastards. Head west. Get to the hills. Three or four miles of dunes, then you reach hard ground. Face the fuckers in the open.’
Trenchman nodded.
‘Okay.’
Osborne reached out and stroked the dash vinyl. He looked at his right hand front and back, rubbing his fingers together like he was saying goodbye to his sense of touch.
‘Guess you guys have a choice. Leave now and face the storm, or wait until later and face killer heat.’
Trenchman nodded.
‘Personally, if I were in your position, I would wait until later. Wouldn’t want to be blundering around in a cyclone.’ He smacked dry lips. ‘Got a drink? A real drink?’
Akingbola tossed Trenchman a plastic miniature cognac. Trenchman unscrewed the cap and held the little bottle to Osborne’s lips. He sipped. Blood diffused through the bottle of amber liquid turning it near black.
Osborne reached for a vest pouch with a trembling hand and popped the flap. He gave Trenchman two clips of 9mm. He opened another pocket and took out a compass.
‘Take every can of Coke, every pack of peanuts. Fill a bag. Don’t leave anything behind.’
Trenchman nodded. He took the compass and mags, and stuffed them in a pocket.
Osborne leaned forwards, like he had something urgent to impart.
‘And don’t forget. They’ll need you in the winter garden.’
‘Winter garden?’
Osborne closed his eyes, leaned back and died.
Trenchman watched him a while, watched residual colour drain from the dead man’s face.
He turned to Akingbola.
‘Let’s go.’
‘What about the storm?’
‘Fuck the storm. Let’s get out of here.’
26
The storm at its height.
The fuselage buffeted by a heavy crosswind. Slam and jolt, like in-flight turbulence.