‘Oh fuck off, Twitchy, the game’s over.’
‘We’re gonna go find Ibis. And Doyenne,’ he says, all steely determination, despite his hand shaking so hard he has to steady the barrel of his gun against my navel.
‘You fragged a police dog, Twitchy. You think they can’t trace your bullets?’ They can’t, but
I’m not gonna tell him that.
‘Only with dye! I thought it was—’ His left hand is switching the safety on and off relentlessly.
‘Part of the game? Got carried away? Like that’s going to stand you in civil rehab. It’s still an attack on police property. If you’re lucky, they might downgrade the charge to defacing police property.’
His eyes are bugging out, but he won’t let up on that damn safety catch. On/off/on/off, not unlike his brain malfunction.
‘But what about Ibis?’ he whines.
‘I’m sure Julia will be fine.’ He winces at her real name, and the implication that I might know her on more intimate terms. Someone’s crushing on their clan mate badly. ‘Doyenne, though, she’s gonna need a whole lot of patching up, thanks to you. You really peeved those dogs. If I were you, Twitchy, I’d bail before they come looking for you.’
I shove the gun away – a pellet that close would leave a nasty bruise – and just for spite, ruffle his hair. But just as I’m about to make a graceful exit, dumping the kid and the whole bad situation, the sprinklers embedded in the ceiling open up.
Twitch looks up, holding out a hand, like a kid catching snowflakes. ‘Wha—?’
‘Shit, don’t let it touch you!’ I pull up the hood on my coat and tuck my hands under my armpits, but it’s too late, there’s already a fine mist on my exposed skin.
‘Why? What is it? What’s the matter?’
People are looking up, raising their faces to the spray; others, the sensible ones, are running for the doors, pulling their clothing over their heads. Some crusty chick in beads is dancing in it, kicking out her legs, like it’s a rave.
‘Chem marking. So the Aitos can follow you, whee, whee, whee, all the way home.’
A feminine voice crackles over the intercom – the SAPS’s virtua spokesperson, who manages to sound warm and impersonal and regretful all at the same time, like a beautiful chiding mother from a Fifties sitcom.
‘Important message. Brought to you by the South African Police Services. We regret to inform you that due to an attempted insurrection by terrorists using banned technology, the SAPS have had no alternative but to make use of statute 41b, Extreme Measures, of the National Security Act,’ says the voice, sweet as high-fructose corn syrup.
‘In accordance with this statute, activated for your protection, you have all been exposed to the M7N1 virus, a lab-coded variation of the Marburg strain. Do not panic.’
This has the opposite effect. A shock of people rush for the exits. Against my better judgement, I yank Twitchy out of the way, so that we’re both wedged tightly behind the pillar while the crush surges past.
‘Repeat. Do not be alarmed. The M7N1 Marburg variation is only fatal if you do NOT report to an immunity centre for treatment within 48 hours. Repeat. It is NOT fatal if you present yourself promptly for vaccination treatment. Vaccination is 100% effective within three hours with minimal lasting side-effects. Vaccination treatment is a free service offered by the South African Police Services.
‘Be advised, that if you choose NOT to report for vaccination, you can expect the following symptoms. Within three hours, your throat will become sore and inflamed. Your mucous membranes will become irritated. Within six hours, you will experience coughing and sneezing. Within 12 hours, your eyesight will become blurry. You will present with flu-like symptoms. Within 18 hours, your muscles will ache and you will experience prolonged coughing fits. Within twenty-four hours, you will feel weak, and you may notice traces of blood in your mucus and your urine. This is an indication that the virus is taking hold and beginning to break down your soft cell structures. After 48 hours, your organs will start to liquefy and collapse. You will be coughing blood uncontrollably, and you may be unable to breathe. Within 50 to 60 hours, your stomach acids will reach your heart and lungs. The virus has limited capacity and is not contagious.
‘South African Police Services strongly advises citizens exposed to the M7N1 Marburg variation for their protection to report to an immunity centre immediately. Should you be too weak to report to an immunity centre, please call the South African Police Services and we will dispatch a mobile service to collect you. Again, this service is free, provided in the interests of public health and safety. The South African Police Services are dedicated to serve. How can we help you?’
Pressed against my chest, Twitch starts to cry. It seems the appropriate response. Talk about a come-down.
We coop up in the kid’s sniper hidey-hole to wait it out. Just because we have to turn ourselves in doesn’t mean the fuckers aren’t going to be waiting for us with a little encouragement. I’m not going to meekly tramp out with the herd and see what happens. I need some time to think, some time to suss out exactly what this means.
The hidey-hole’s normal purpose in life is as a maintenance cluster, where the VIMbots go to recharge, happy and humming. We have to boot some of them out to make space for us – it’s not like they don’t have work to do with the mess outside – and even then, we’re both sitting hunched with our knees up.
When it gets too cramped and boring, I send Twitch (real name Eddie, he tells me) out to scout, half hoping he won’t come back. But he crawls back in a few minutes later, so I have to fold my knees up again to accommodate him. Just when the pins and needles were wearing off.
‘Well?’
‘I didn’t. I was—’ The little shit can’t even look at me.
‘You’re hopeless, Eddie.’ I scoot past him on my butt, only to have a VIMbot zoom in the flapdoor and ram full-throttle into my shin. ‘Fuck!’
I chuck the VIMbot out of the cluster and drop down out after it into one of the toilet stalls, nudging the door open cautiously with my boot. The bot is already fully recovered. By the time I nip a glance around the edge of the men’s room door, it’s already skittered away.
The station is deserted, although there is a droning coming from somewhere near the entrance. There are no trains running, at least not here, but there’s a dull sound that could be rumbling in tunnels further away. The space is eerie without people. Déjà vu city. I’m almost expecting to hear a rusty gurgle.
The surfaces are coated with a damp beaded film, like the walls have been sweating. I know I’m already infected, but can you blame me for not wanting to touch anything or prolong the exposure?
There is a human bundle collapsed on the stairs, which I have every intention of ignoring. I touch my hand to my gun, even though it’s only loaded with chemdye. I’m still trying to figure out whether it’s better to head down to the tunnels, try and find a service exit or just, fuck it, go out the front, when there is the squeal of tackies on wet marble behind me. I tighten my grip on the .44, but it’s only Twitch/Eddie, looking even paler and scared, oblivious to the squelch of his sneakers. I flap my hand at him and he gets it. He shifts to his toes, so that the rubber doesn’t squeak so much.
He points at the bundle and whispers, cos speaking would be too loud in all this space, even if we were absolutely fucking totally positive that no one else was around. ‘What’s that?’
‘Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing. Leave it.’
‘Is she… dead?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Just fucking leave it.’