"Jan is still under sedation. Oh, Luke, her injuries are terrible. Her face ... The wound at the back of her neck is the one the doctors are really worried about. Fortunately, the spine was undamaged, but the wound beside it is so deep. It was touch-and-go for the first twenty-four hours. They think she'll pull through, though."
The coldness had crept back into Fender's features. "And Will?" he asked.
"He should be out tomorrow. He's got a nasty wound in his leg where the rat bit him, but no muscles or tendons were torn. They're only keeping him in to make sure there isn't any infection. Or disease.
He's terribly upset about poor Jan..."
"Ready, Mr. Fender?" Captain Mather stood two yards from them, Mike Lehmann at his side.
You're going back for more, Captain?" said Fender, surprised.
Why not?" came the reply. Then, with a grin, They're only rats."
Mike Lehmann rolled his eyes heavenwards, but seemed in good humour now that the gassing was underway.
"Okay, Luke. Check the north first, then the southern outlets. There's no way the vermin can get into the surrounding sewer networks every connection is sealed tight. So we won't be getting any complaints from the local authorities saying we've driven monsters on to their patch.
We've got 'em boxed in, Luke, no way out."
"Okay. I'll report back to you from each base. I'll stay with the last one until they've completed pumping."
"Right. Good luck."
Fender looked down at Jenny. "I'll see you later," he said.
"Be sure you do."
Then he was gone, tramping down the path in his awkward suit, Captain Mather striding briskly by his side. They headed for a scout car, two lounging soldiers snapping to attention as they approached.
"Why did he have to go this time?" Jenny said aloud. "He's done his job."
"His job?" Lehmann had joined her at the reception area's long window.
"It's more than just a job to Luke, miss, er ... Jenny, isn't it?"
She nodded, turning towards RatkiU's head biologist. "What do you mean, more than just a job?" she asked curiously.
"With Luke, it's more of a vendetta. He despises the rats."
"But why?"
You didn't know? I thought..." Lehmann left the sentence unfinished, and turned his gaze back to the window, his face expressionless.
"Please tell me," Jenny persisted.
Lehmann let out a deep breath. "Luke's parents and younger brother were killed by Black rats in the London Outbreak, four years ago. He was living in the North at the time because of his work."
Jenny closed her eyes. She had known, sensed instinctively, that there was an underlying seriousness behind Luke's flippant remarks regarding his job.
"It was months after the incident that Luke contacted Ratkill. I suppose it took that long to get himself together. Stephen Howard was an old friend of his. He knew the full story and discussed it with me before he decided to take him on. I must say, I was against the idea, even though we needed as many men as we could get at that time: I didn't want any of my staff taking unnecessary risks, you see. Anyway, Howard overruled me, said Luke was a professional, whatever his motives. When I got to know Luke, I had to agree."
Jenny shook her head. "I didn't realize."
"I'm sorry. I assumed he'd told you. From what I've seen over the last couple of days, you two seem, er ... close? It's not something Luke talks about much, although I think it would be better for him if he did. It might get it out of his system. Maybe he'll tell you in his own time. I wouldn't mention that I..."
Jenny shook her head again. "I won't. At least now I know why he does this godawful job. I'm sorry, I didn't mean ..."
"It's all right," Lehmann said, chuckling. "You're right: it is a godawful job. But thank God some of us are inclined to do it. Now I've got to get back next door and synchronize the gas pumping. We want all the machines to be used at the same time so there's nowhere for the vermin to run to."
Lehmann smiled at the tutor. "Don't worry about Luke, Jenny. This'll be good for him. It'll help purge some of the hate that's been building up inside him for all these years. You can be sure of one thing though, he won't be happy until every last one of them is dead."
They pumped the cyanide into the underground tunnels and prayed. There was no reason why the deadly fumes should not eliminate the vermin completely, for they were trapped, sealed in their own tomb; yet every man felt uneasy, as though they were dealing with more than just animals, but something unknown, something alien to their world. They listened to the sounds from below through earphones, the microphones sunk deep into the earth, penetrating the dark chambers, and heard the cries of the dying creatures, their panic as they fought to free themselves, the frantic scraping against solid walls, their terrified squeals as they scrambled over each others' backs to get clear of the destructive, seeping gas.
Some, just a few, managed to scrabble their way through an undetected opening, close to where Fender's group had been attacked earlier, but the soldiers were waiting for them. The first through were burnt to black ash by the flamethrowers, and those immediately behind had their lungs seared with the heat. Their corpses blocked the narrow passageway as effectively as the cement, for although their companions tried to gnaw their way through the bodies, the creeping fumes stole over them and they quivered in final, painful death-throes.
The men above the ground could not see the carnage that was taking place below, but they could feel the death in the air, they could envisage the desperate struggle inside the black catacombs. Even the forest itself seemed to maintain a respectful silence.
On the faces of the men who listened into the receivers was a mixture of disgust and pity. The cries in their ears seemed to belong to hundreds upon hundreds of children, screaming their panic, wailing as they died. It did not take long for the gas to penetrate every dark hole of the sewer network and soon the radio men at their different points began removing the headphones, feeling no gloating victory, just an ebbing of their spirit. They looked up at the silent men around them and nodded. The rats were dead.
SIXTEEN
"Luke, you look done in. Come and join us in the Warden's office, we'd like to discuss something with you."
Fender wearily tossed the helmet into the corner of the reception area and stared into Stephen Howard's smiling face.
"If it's all the same to you, I'd like to get back to my hotel and take a long, hot bath. Can't we meet later?"
"Afraid not. I promise you, it won't take long." The research director turned on his heels, still smiling pleasantly, and strode from the reception area, taking the corridor leading to Alex Milton's office. Fender followed, his limbs stiff from the bruising he'd received earlier that day.
The only people in the small room were Mike Lehmann and Antony Thornton. The research director immediately walked over to a cabinet on one side of the office on which stood an assortment of drinks.
The Warden sent these over from his private stock," Howard explained, his smile now beginning to irritate Fender. "Still Scotch, no ice, no water?"