Titanic 2020: Cannibal City Read online

  ‘You have an appointment?’

  ‘No – but he’ll see me.’

  ‘How’d you know that, then?’

  ‘I just – just tell him Jimmy Armstrong wants to see him right now.’ Even as he said it, Jimmy realised how stupid it sounded. But it was already out. He added a belated, ‘Please.’

  The guards smirked at each other. One bowed his head a little. ‘Wait here, please.’

  He went inside. The other guard continued to smirk at him. Jimmy wiped his boots on the steps, trying to remove at least some of the thickly-caked mud on them. A few moments later the first guard reappeared. ‘This way, sir,’ he said meekly, holding the door open and waving his arm in an exaggerated fashion to indicate that he should enter. Jimmy was fast running out of the steam that had propelled him here. Nevertheless, there was no turning back. He took a deep breath and stepped into the White House.

  There was a nice, bright, outer office, with half a dozen young women sitting at computer terminals. One stood up and indicated for him to follow. She led him to a door at the end of a short corridor with another guard standing outside it. He frisked Jimmy for weapons, nodded at the young woman and she tapped lightly on the door.

  ‘Mr President – Private Armstrong to see you, sir.’

  It was the first time he’d been called that, and it caused him to swallow.

  The young woman opened the door and motioned him in.

  The President’s office could not have been more different than the reception area. Just like it had been on the train, curtains were firmly closed over the windows, and the reading light on the desk was barely sufficient to dispel the resultant gloom. This time the President was facing him, sitting behind a desk with his hands clasped on top of it.

  He looked at Jimmy, without smiling. ‘Private Armstrong?’

  Jimmy thought he had better get it all out before his nerve deserted him completely.

  Right. Here goes.

  ‘Mr President – I’m sorry to trouble you . . . but . . . look – the thing is, I never intended to be part of any . . . you know, army. That’s not what I’m about . . . I’m more sort of. . . you know – freewheeling . . . a bit of a free spirit – do you know what I mean?’

  What on earth are you talking about? Shut up now!

  But he couldn’t stop himself.

  ‘The thing is, I thought I was coming to your new . . . city . . . and I want to contribute and all, except . . . not really like this. I’m no soldier, I’m a newspaper man . . . you probably don’t think I’m old enough – but I’ve been editing a daily newspaper on the Titanic for ages so I thought I could do something similar here – you know, start a newspaper? It’s important that a record’s kept . . . I mean, you’re like the President of the United States – this is history – one day people will want to know how you started to rebuild . . .’

  The President held his hand up to stop him.

  Jimmy chewed on a lip.

  ‘What do you mean, the Titanic?’

  Jimmy hesitated. He hadn’t previously mentioned his old home. Now it had just slipped out. ‘Yes – the Titanic . . . I was on it, for a while.’

  ‘The new Titanic? The one they launched just a few months ago?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘She’s in full working order, captain and crew?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, she sailed off and left me behind – by mistake, obviously . . .’

  ‘This was off where, Tucker’s Hole?’

  ‘Yes . . . yes – we’ve been working our way up the coast, but that’s not really the point. What I’m saying is I Want to work for you, but in a different way, I want to write about what you’re doing here and . . . and . . . and if you don’t want me to do that . . . well, that’s OK . . . But I can handle a camera, you’ll want a photographic record for the history books as well . . . and . . . and . . . you know . . . if you don’t want that either, then maybe I can just . . . you know, go on my way . . . Mr President. I’m no use to you as a soldier. But before I go, I really think you need to know about that guy out there, you know, the one who’s training us, the one with the Mohican. He’s just a compete sadist – some of us haven’t eaten all day, he’s working us into the ground. One or two of us are pretty fit, but some of the young ones, you’d think he was trying to kill them the way he’s working them. He’s a bully, sir. Anyone who wanted to help you out with this great . . . plan . . . well, they’re going to be put right off by this – this arse . . .’

  For the second time the President raised his hand. ‘I think I’ve heard enough, son.’

  ‘So, you’ll . . . you’ll do something about him? I know in the grand scheme of things it’s not that important but maybe just a quiet word or . . .’

  The President smiled. ‘Oh, it’s important enough, Private. In fact I’m going to have my son look into it straight away. That OK with you, Kyle?’

  For a moment Jimmy didn’t get that there had been someone else in the room all along. He had walked straight to within a metre or so of the President’s desk without realising that there were chairs against the wall behind him.

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr President . . . Father.’

  Kyle stepped forward, into the light.

  Jimmy saw a rather familiar haircut.

  ‘Private Armstrong,’ Mohican snarled, ‘you have a problem with the way you’re being trained?’ Jimmy swallowed. ‘You just want to breeze out of here, go on your merry way, leave the rest of us to rebuild this country?’

  ‘Well I—’

  ‘You shut your god-damn mouth!’

  Jimmy jumped at the venom of it.

  Mohican was suddenly right in his face, jabbing a finger this close to his eyes.

  ‘One thing I hate more than punk kids who can’t follow orders,’ Mohican spat, ‘is punk kids who go crying to Daddy every time someone shouts at them. You’re a pathetic little worm, Armstrong, that’s what you are, and I’ll tell you this – you’re going nowhere! By the time I’m through with you you’ll walk and talk and kill like a Marine . . . or you’ll be buried out there in the graveyard we reserve for cowards like you. Now you get back to that rabble I’m trying to turn into soldiers and you tell them they’re getting no dinner tonight either!’

  Throughout this verbal assault the President had said nothing. But he had nodded with approval.

  The size of Jimmy’s mistake was beyond colossal. And he didn’t have a clue what to do about it. If Mohican didn’t kill him, the rest of his troop would as soon as they found out about the food.

  Jimmy sighed, saluted, then turned to go.

  ‘One moment, Private,’ said the President.

  Perhaps, perhaps a ray of hope . . .

  Jimmy faced the President again. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Private, I want a full run-down of the Titanic’s defences, weapons, how many men at arms there are on board.’

  ‘Uh . . . Yes, sir – but why?’

  The President nodded at his son. ‘Kyle – if a ship’s in United States territorial waters and we’re going through a national emergency, then we’re perfectly within our rights to seize it, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Excellent. There’s your answer, Private Armstrong. Your arrival at Fort Hope is indeed fortuitous – not only do we gain a soldier, but he brings us the mighty Titanic as well. Well done, son!’

  16

  The Nightmare

  After twenty minutes of arguing against all logic that it could not possibly have been a nightmare, Claire finally had to concede first that it could have been one, then that it probably was one, before eventually admitting that yes, it definitely had been a nightmare. The minister, Rev. Calvin Cleaver, could not possibly have entered the locked Presidential Suite to attack her; he could not have ghosted past her father, sitting smoking a cigar in the lounge, or vanished into a puff of smoke when he raced into her bedroom moments after she started screami
ng.

  ‘OK, all right.’ Her pyjamas were damp from the cold sweat that had drenched her. Her chest was tight with anxiety. ‘It was a nightmare. But Dad, don’t you see? It means something.’

  ‘It means you’re still weak after your injury,’ said Mr Stanford, patting her shoulder reassuringly. ‘It’s obviously far too soon for you to be back at work . . .’

  ‘It’s not that – it’s . . . it’s like – a sign.’

  Her father sighed.

  ‘Dad – I’m serious, he—’

  ‘I blame it on the cheese.’ It was her mother, coming to lend her support.

  Husband and daughter looked at her, still not quite used to the fact that she was from another planet, where logic had not yet been invented.

  ‘What?’ asked Claire.

  ‘Cheese, it gives you nightmares. That’s what they say.’

  ‘Mum – I haven’t had any cheese.’

  ‘No, but you had two cups of hot chocolate. It’s made with milk. So is cheese. I’m sure there’s a connection.’

  She drifted back out of the room. Father and daughter looked at each other and smiled. He ruffled her hair. ‘Try and get some sleep, and then take it easy tomorrow, all right?’

  ‘All right, Dad.’

  Of course, Claire had no intention of taking it easy. She had a paper to run – and a killer to unmask.

  Claire was proud of that morning’s paper. They all were. It was packed with good news stories and features. There was a glowing tribute to Jimmy – under the headline Jimmy Armstrong: Missing In Action. On her way to work she was stopped several times and congratulated on the production. This, she knew, was a rare event in newspapers – usually you only heard from the general public when they had a complaint. When she reached the office the team was all there, busy chatting amongst themselves.

  ‘You all did a really good job last night,’ she said, sitting on the edge of her desk. ‘Now we’ve got to do it all over again today.’

  They let out a resigned groan.

  ‘I want a pay rise,’ said Andy.

  ‘Double pay for everyone,’ said Claire, then pretended to do a mental calculation. ‘What’s the double of nothing?’

  They laughed politely. Claire liked them. She liked being in charge. If Jimmy returned he would have a fight on his hands if he wanted his old job back.

  She shook herself. When Jimmy returned.

  Claire clapped her hands together. ‘OK, let’s take a look at what we’ve got today. Ty?’

  ‘I have some more from Jonas Jones. The problem with the engines – I’d thought we were looking for some massive replacement part, but it turns out it’s about this size . . .’ He held up his thumb and forefinger, about ten centimetres apart. ‘Don’t quite understand what it does although Jonas spent about an hour explaining it to me, but that’s what we need. It’s manufactured in two places in the whole world – Belfast, where the ship was built, and a place in New Jersey not far from NewYork. That’s where we have to get to.’

  ‘OK,’ said Claire, ‘we’re a couple of days out of New York yet. I’ll do the photos, but I’ll need a reporter along as well. Any volunteers?’

  Everyone raised their hands, including the idiot who made the tea.

  ‘If . . . you don’t mind?’ It was Ty again. ‘I’m from New Jersey – I know the area, and I’d kind of like to see if any of my family . . .’

  Claire nodded. His parents had both died during the plague, here on the ship. She hadn’t asked if he had other family. That’s how it worked on board, you rarely asked friends and colleagues about family – it was too painful.

  ‘Of course, Ty.’

  She spent another ten minutes discussing stories and handing out assignments before arriving at what was really on her mind.

  ‘OK, I have another assignment here. We have a minister on board, Reverend Calvin Cleaver, came on yesterday. Looking for a profile of him, nice big interview, any volunteers . . . ?’

  ‘Boring,’ said Debs.

  ‘I know. But it’ll be good to have on file in case we have a quiet news day.’

  ‘Remind me of the last time that was.’ Debs laughed.

  Claire was deliberately trying to make it sound boring. She was uncomfortable doing this, but she didn’t want to let them know her real reason for wanting the story in case the interviewer inadvertently tipped Cleaver off that she thought he was a murderer.

  ‘So?’

  Nobody was interested. They were all keen to get started on their own assignments.

  Then slowly, slowly, the idiot who made the tea raised his hand.

  ‘Alan,’ said Claire.

  ‘Brian,’ said Brian.

  ‘Yes, of course . . . ahm, you want to do this?’ Brian nodded. ‘You haven’t written anything for us yet, have you?’ Brian shook his head. He looked at the floor.

  Claire wasn’t sure if she’d ever actually spoken to him. She couldn’t quite recall how he’d ever arrived in the first place. He had just started hanging around, sitting in the corner, watching mostly, until someone ordered him to make the tea or get lost. She thought it was Ty who’d started calling him the idiot who makes the tea – behind his back, of course – and it had just kind of caught on. She should have put a stop to it. Or Jimmy should. But they weren’t perfect.

  None of them had known how to write a story when they’d started, but they’d all been given their chance. Most of their first stories had been awful. But they’d learned how to do it and were now reasonably good at it. Brian deserved his chance.

  ‘OK, Brian,’ said Claire. ‘Why don’t you take a shot at it?’ She glanced across at Ty, who was looking surprised. She smiled at Brian. ‘Just remember, I want as much detail as possible – don’t be afraid to ask him anything.’ Brian nodded. ‘You have a notebook?’

  ‘I have a tape recorder.’

  ‘OK, Brian. You go for it. Good luck.’

  He smiled, without once raising his eyes to Claire, and turned to the door. As he passed Debs’ desk she gave him the thumbs-up. When he was gone Ty looked across at Claire.

  ‘Are you sure he’s up to it?’

  ‘We’ll soon find out.’

  Ty shrugged. ‘I just thought he was stupid.’

  Debs tutted.

  ‘He’s just shy. He has an IQ of 140. That means he’s a genius.’

  ‘How do you know he has an IQ of 140?’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘And you believed him? Well I’m pretty sure you haven’t an IQ of 140, if you fell for that. Anyway, if he was that smart he’d know how to make a decent cup of tea.’

  ‘Well who knows, maybe Einstein couldn’t make tea either.’

  ‘Any idiot can make tea.’

  ‘Well I don’t see you making it, Ty.’

  ‘Well, I’m not any idiot.’

  ‘No, you’re in a class of your own.’

  Claire left them to it. She had her replacement camera with her, and a telescopic lens. She was both fascinated and repelled by Calvin Cleaver. She wanted to get close to him, but also remain at a distance. She would take his photo and study it. She would study Brian’s interview and learn from it. There was something about Cleaver that was just plain wrong.

  17

  The Punishment

  It was safe to say that Jimmy was not the most popular member of the troop. In fact, it was also inaccurate to say that he was the least popular, because any sentence containing the words ‘Jimmy’ and ‘popular’ should be regarded as unsatisfactory, such were the negative feelings engendered by his behaviour. Simple words like ‘hatred’ and ‘loathing’ would fit much more neatly into any sentence you could care to construct in reference to Lucky Jimmy Armstrong. Most of this had to do with hunger. When you’ve been worked into the ground in the morning, then missed your lunch, then trained even further into the ground in the afternoon, then missed your dinner and spent an evening lying about, exhausted and starving – well, one can understand just how you might feel about the b
oy responsible. One would also understand why you hurled him out of the barracks – incidentally, showing splendid teamwork in the process – so that he landed face down in the mud, and why you slammed and locked the door behind him so that he had to spend the next six hours wandering miserably around the fort by himself, aware that he’d made a big fat idiot of himself and that he’d not only betrayed his new comrades but also his old comrades on the Titanic as well. Even Rain Man joined in, and they hated him only marginally less than they did Jimmy.

  Jimmy was still tramping around the camp as darkness fell and the floodlights snapped on. Searchlights began to rove across the plain and up into the hills surrounding Fort Hope. The guards in the watchtowers changed shift; those coming off duty appeared relieved, those going on looked nervous. Jimmy remembered Mohican’s warning to be quiet as they’d approached the fort the previous night and wondered what could possibly be out there to cause such fear amongst those defending Fort Hope.

  It was only as Jimmy wandered between the barracks that he began to fully appreciate the scale of what the President was undertaking – there were literally thousands of soldiers here, all undergoing similar training. There were armoured vehicles, missile launchers, even several tanks. It was an army. But what he didn’t quite understand was what it was for. An army represents the citizens of a country; it defends that country, or attacks on its behalf. But there were no ordinary ‘citizens’ here – there were no mothers, wives, children: no bankers, carpenters or newspapers to protect, there was just the army. Everyone was in the army.

  Fort Hope was completely different to any of the other settlements Jimmy had seen – as pathetic and disorganised as they had been, they’d also been determined attempts by survivors to put down fresh roots, safe havens where families could live together, start again. But Fort Hope felt . . . temporary. It was massive, but it wasn’t permanent, it was more like a camp, somewhere you expect to move on from. It seemed clear to Jimmy that the President had a plan, and he was building an army with which to execute it. The Titanic now featured in that plan – although almost as an afterthought.