Titanic 2020: Cannibal City Page 5

  He began to move in their direction.

  Claire’s nails dug into Jimmy’s arm.

  He was coming, slowly, but coming.

  Wait and hope he stopped, or make a run for it?

  Jimmy wasn’t going to lie there and wait for him. This minister had already killed one man – there was nothing to stop him shooting them either. He looked at Claire. She nodded.

  He mouthed – ‘One, two . . .’ They sprang up on three and sprinted back the way they’d come. At first there was only the soft pad of their feet on the forest floor . . . until the first shot shattered a branch centimetres from Claire’s head. She let out a scream, but didn’t miss a step.

  A second and third shot rang out just as they came to the diverging paths. The third smashed into a tree to Jimmy’s right and a wood splinter sliced along his cheek; Jimmy charged along the path that veered slightly to the left. A fourth shot cracked out further to the right and there was another scream from Claire – but further away.

  She’d taken the other path!

  But which one was the minister—?

  A branch exploded to Jimmy’s right. He tumbled to the ground, rolled, sprang back up and kept running. He had his answer.

  But did that mean Claire was safe . . . or was she already dead?

  Or lying wounded and the minister was going to kill Jimmy first before going back to finish her off?

  Either way, there was nothing he could do!

  Just keep running!

  It was then that the minister’s high pitched, whiny voice rang out. ‘I see you, boy! I’m coming for you, boy!’

  7

  Wounded

  It was the pain that woke her. Claire opened her eyes in the darkness and instinctively tried to rub some ease into her arm. She immediately let out a yelp. What had she done to it . . . ? Come to that, where was she? Why was she so cold and damp . . . ? Who switched off the lights? She felt around her with her good hand – soft . . . twigs . . . a reassuring smell of pine – the forest! She tried to tidy her jumbled thoughts together – The last thing . . . the last thing I remember . . . oh, my God . . . the minister . . . !

  I’m shot, I’ve been shot!

  Adrenaline coursed through her veins.

  She desperately tried to catch her breath.

  No . . . wait . . . wait . . . calm . . . don’t panic . . . I’m alive . . . I’m still alive . . .

  Claire carefully turned her injured arm so that she could see her watch, and pressed a button on the side to illuminate the face . . .

  Six o’clock!

  They’d been hurrying to meet the boat for four o’clock!

  They were two hours late!

  They . . .

  Jimmy!

  She remembered now! The gunshot, the incredible pain in her arm and then stumbling off the path and running as hard as she could. Then she’d fallen and didn’t have the strength to get up again. She’d heard the minister calling out to Jimmy and then more gunshots.

  A terrible feeling of dread swept over her.

  Jimmy’s dead!

  Her best friend in the whole world – even though she’d hated him – was dead.

  She immediately followed that with: No, I don’t know that! Not for sure. Jimmy’s a survivor, he’ll find a way to survive. He’s probably back on the ship already, writing up the story for the paper.

  He probably hasn’t given me a second thought.

  Nobody has.

  They think I’m dead! They’ve sailed on!

  No! They’re looking for me . . . they MUST be looking for me – but if Jimmy’s dead . . . how will they know where to look?

  Claire peered into the darkness – but there was nothing to see. If the minister was still out there then he could surely no more see her than she could see him.

  She gingerly touched her arm again, and the pain of it caused her to momentarily black out. Her head fell back and cracked on the trunk of a tree. It was enough of a shock to jolt her back to consciousness.

  This isn’t good . . . this isn’t good . . .

  Oh my, oh my, oh my – I’ve been left behind! Jimmy’s dead! I’m going to die! Small furry animals are going to find my body and eat me! Help! Help! Helllll—

  No! Get a grip!

  Calm down . . . calmer . . . think sensibly . . . If I was going to die, I wouldn’t have woken up. I’m OK – for now . . . but if the minister doesn’t find me, then I’ll probably bleed to death. I have to get out of here . . .

  She took several long, deep breaths to steady herself, but they just made her feel woozy. She rested her head more carefully back against the tree. Her eyes were drawn upwards – it was dark on the forest floor but there was still some light up there above the trees.

  Which way to go?

  Back to Tucker’s Hole? They can radio the ship! But what if the ship is out of range already? Or the minister is there?

  And I’ve no idea which direction the village is in. I must have lost a lot of blood – how long can I walk for? If I get lost in the woods . . .

  She pulled and pulled at the arm of her shirt until finally the material ripped. She wrapped it around her wound and used her teeth to pull it as tight as the pain would allow.

  East. I have to go east.

  I have no idea where the rendezvous point is from here, but I know the coast is east. If I can strike the coast then there’s some small chance someone might spot me.

  And if they don’t . . .

  Claire forced herself up. She leaned against the tree, steadied herself, then cautiously let go. She was dizzy, her legs felt like lead and her arm – well . . . she’d been shot.

  She had no choice but to start walking.

  She had to . . . go . . . now . . .

  The emergency rendezvous point was at a short stretch of beach a mile from the rivermouth where Tucker’s Hole had been built. First Officer Jeffers stood on the sand, scanning a tree line that stretched as far as the settlement on his right, and then as far as the eye could see to his left. He glanced at his watch. It was now three and a half hours past pick-up time and it was almost completely dark. He was certain that something pretty terrible had happened to Claire and Jimmy.

  His radio crackled.

  ‘Mr Jeffers? Stanford here. Anything to report?’

  Jeffers took a deep breath. Claire’s father had been on the radio every ten minutes since she’d been reported missing. His desperate concern was understandable, and Jeffers was frustrated that he’d no positive news for him.

  ‘Mr Stanford, sir, just waiting on the patrols returning. But it’s almost pitch black in the forest now, sir.’

  ‘I understand that. What about this settlement – Tucker’s . . . ?’

  ‘Tucker’s Hole, sir. Sent two patrols in. Nothing there either.’

  ‘Did you search thoroughly, Mr Jeffers?’

  ‘We searched every building. As I told you earlier, sir, some kids thought they saw them going off into the forest and then . . .’

  ‘Gunshots.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It doesn’t mean—’

  ‘I know what it means, Mr Jeffers.’ There were several long moments of radio static. ‘I know you’ll do your best, Mr Jeffers. She’s a headstrong girl, but we do love . . .’ His voice faltered, and what he had intended to say remained unspoken.

  ‘We’re doing everything we can, sir.’

  There was another burst of static and then Captain Smith spoke, his voice calm and authoritative. ‘Mr Jeffers, you may give it another ten minutes, then call off the search for the night. We will resume at first light.’

  ‘Yes, Captain.’

  Thirty minutes later, with the patrols returned and no sign of Claire or Jimmy, First Officer Jeffers reluctantly gave the order to reboard the inflatables and return to the ship. He knew that the more time passed the less likely it was that they’d be found alive. This new world was dangerous, and particularly dangerous for knuckle-headed, rebellious kids like Claire and Jimmy.

  ‘Al
l aboard, sir.’

  Jeffers splashed through a metre or so of water and climbed into the hi-tech, high-speed boat. ‘Very well – let’s take her back to Titan—’

  But he was suddenly interrupted by one of the crewmen crying out: ‘Look, sir! There!’

  All eyes turned to where the sailor was pointing – about half a mile away along the beach a small figure had emerged from the tree line and was hurrying towards them – albeit in an odd zigzag pattern. With an overcast sky and no moonlight it was impossible in the darkness to make out whether it was Claire or Jimmy or just one of the locals, running along the beach.

  ‘Well spotted, Martin! Cut engines! Dalzell, bring the flashlight!’

  Jeffers threw his legs over the side of the inflatable and waded back to shore, quickly followed by half a dozen others. He began to jog along the sand. Ahead of him the dark figure weaved off to one side before abruptly falling to the ground. Jeffers picked up his speed and seconds later slid to a halt beside . . .

  ‘Flashlight!’

  Dalzell appeared behind him, gasping for breath, and flicked on the torch.

  It was a girl, for sure, but it was several moments before Jeffers realised it was Claire. Her face was a mass of cuts and scratches, as if she’d been dragged through bushes. Her hair was hanging dank across her face and her clothes were badly torn.

  ‘Claire?’

  Jeffers gently pushed the damp hair away from her eyes. He softly shook her arm – she winced in pain and let out a moan. He took the flashlight from Dalzell and shone it on her arm – then gasped as he saw the wound and the dirt surrounding it. He cursed himself for not insisting that Dr Hill remain ashore until the search was over. He began to check her pulse.

  ‘Stretcher!’ he snapped.

  ‘Got it, sir!’ Martin was already snapping open a foldable stretcher.

  ‘Let’s get her back to the ship! Dalzell! Call Dr Hill, have him standing by!’

  ‘Sir!’

  The stretcher was laid on the sand, and they were just preparing to lift Claire on to it when she opened her eyes. With her good arm she reached vaguely out in Jeffers’ direction. ‘Please . . . Jimmy . . . you have to find . . . Jimmy . . .’ Her voice was barely audible. Her eyes rolled back in her head. ‘Please . . . Jimmy . . . Babe . . . I’m not . . . talking . . . to . . . him . . .’

  Jeffers took her hand. ‘It’s OK Claire, we’re taking you home.’

  He stood back then and gave his crew the signal to lift the stretcher. The Titanic was less than a mile off shore. He had absolutely no idea if she’d still be alive when they got there.

  8

  The Tree

  It was a risk. A huge risk. But he couldn’t run any further.

  Jimmy considered himself to be relatively fit – but so was the minister. He just kept on coming. Not faster – but relentless. Every time Jimmy chanced a look back he was right there, running like a machine at exactly the same pace, his rifle carried in one hand at his side, his wide-brimmed hat shadowing his eyes. There were no more shots.

  He’s saving them.

  Jimmy ducked in and out of the trees, crisscrossed animal paths, ran up hills and down; plunged through undergrowth and leaped across streams; but still the minister was right there. In the end he knew he had to try something radical or his legs would become so weak that he would stumble and twist an ankle and then the minister would be on him.

  He had to go up.

  Jimmy hurtled through the next thick bank of trees, laboured up a short incline and disappeared briefly over the brow.

  Now!

  He had perhaps fifteen seconds before the minister would appear. Jimmy threw himself at the closest trees – he was a veteran tree climber from his days in Belfast. These trees had slender trunks with few lower branches, but he was still able to wrap his aching legs around the rough bark. He was drenched in sweat and could hardly catch his breath, but he had no choice but to try and wring the last ounce of strength from his body to shimmy up the tree. He didn’t even dare look back to see if the minister had come over the brow yet. He just pulled and pulled until at last his feet started to find proper, weight-bearing branches.

  He was about halfway up the pine when he heard the dull thud of the minister’s feet on the soft forest floor. Jimmy froze. The minister was coming straight towards the tree he was hiding in. Jimmy knew he wasn’t far enough up it yet to be properly hidden. If the minister looked up now, he was a dead man.

  The minister passed directly below him – and kept going.

  As carefully as he possibly could Jimmy climbed further up the trunk.

  The minister stopped twenty metres further on. The trees before him had thinned out, giving him a clear view of the forest ahead. And obviously he could no longer see his prey.

  The minister turned and began to retrace his steps.

  Jimmy stopped moving. He already knew the danger that lay in the slightest noise in this forest.

  The minister drew closer. He was walking slightly stooped with his eyes fixed to the ground. Jimmy tried desperately to slow his breathing as he approached.

  Now he was directly below him.

  All Jimmy could see was the top of his black hat and its wide brim. It was like looking down on a dead planet.

  The minister moved left, right; then circled the tree.

  A bead of sweat rolled off Jimmy’s dank brow, down his nose, and sat precariously on its very tip. He felt so weak that his grip on the tree was now quite insecure and he didn’t dare try to wipe it away; all he could do was will it to stay where it was.

  But, of course, he was Lucky Jimmy Armstrong.

  The drop dropped.

  In a movie, to eke out the agony, it might have fallen in slow motion.

  But this one just fell fast and pinged on to the crown of the minister’s hat.

  Immediately he looked up.

  That’s it. I’m dead.

  He raised his rifle.

  I am absolutely dead.

  It didn’t even cross his mind to beg for his life. He knew it would be useless. The minister was a cold-hearted killer.

  Jimmy just stared down at him and waited.

  The minister stared right back – but then he blinked: once, twice, three times; he rubbed at his eyes, then held a hand up to shield them.

  He’s looking straight at me – but he can’t see me because of the sun!

  Jimmy turned his head very, very slowly upwards. The sun was low in the sky, but the position of his tree at the foot of the incline was just perfect for catching it. However, it was sinking rapidly and might only give him such blinding cover for a few more minutes.

  The minister remained where he was, looking up, gun raised; but now he was ranging it along the tops of other trees which weren’t in the full glare. He brought it right back round to Jimmy’s tree, looked up again, squinting, then shut his eyes tight and turned away. He lowered the gun and rubbed the knuckles of his left hand into his straining eyes.

  When he had recovered sufficiently, the minister again surveyed the surrounding trees. His voice, when it came, was shrill, and every bit as spine-chilling as the first time: ‘You can’t escape from me, boy!’ he screamed. ‘I will hunt you down!’

  Another bead of sweat swept down Jimmy’s nose; he watched it, cross-eyed, for an agonising moment until it shot off the end and continued down on the exact trajectory of its predecessor.

  But this time it splashed harmlessly on to the spongy forest floor.

  The minister was gone!

  It is difficult to sleep in a tree. One moment you’re drifting into peaceful slumber, the next you’ve fallen ten metres to the ground and you’ve broken your neck. He did nod off, three or four times. Once he actually let go of the branch and that awful dropping sensation was already ripping through his tummy when he frantically dug his fingernails into the bark and was just about able to hold on. He was desperately tired, but there was no way that he was going to venture down. It was pitch black, he was bein
g devoured by ants: his cheek, where the sliver of wood had sliced into him, was sticky and sore, but he still wasn’t going down there. The minister was waiting for him. He worked for God. He could probably see in the dark.

  In those precious seconds where he did sleep, he endured odd, weird dreams which came and went in a flash – the minister bearing down on Claire and Jimmy saving her, swooping down out of the sky on angel wings.

  For the most part, though, he stared into the darkness. He was hungry and his throat was parched, but he was neither hungry enough nor thirsty enough to take a chance on the minister being out there. He began to wonder what had driven the minister to such murderous acts, and who the man he’d shot was . . . but then he stopped himself. It didn’t matter.

  Claire’s dead. That’s all that matters. My friend Claire is dead.

  He was certain of it.

  Or almost certain of it.

  The minister had pursued her, shot at her, then satisfied with his kill, turned his attention to him.

  Or . . .

  There was a very small chance that she was still alive. But was that necessarily better, if she was lying wounded somewhere, unable to move, dying a slow, agonising death? They had shared danger before and survived, but this was different. Before they had been able to support each other; each of them was ingenious and brave in their own way – they were a great team. Apart, somehow, they were diminished. And now they would never be together again. All because of a stupid pig. If he hadn’t bloody tried to be so bloody smart then they would never have stopped talking, and if they had still been on good terms then that kid from Tucker’s Hole would never have been able to rip off Claire’s camera, and if. . .

  If, if, if, if, if . . .

  Ifs were no good to him now. He had to concentrate on one thing.

  Surviving.

  He slept.

  He fell.

  Jimmy was lucky that several branches on the way down broke his fall, and that the ground at the foot of the tree happened to be particularly soft. But he still landed with a tremendous whumpf. It was almost five minutes before he could bring himself to try moving. It was light now and a low mist hung upon the ground. Jimmy cautiously pushed himself up to his feet. Remarkably, although every single bone in his body ached, nothing appeared to be broken. He took several tentative steps forward. He didn’t feel too bad at all, considering. And the fact that he hadn’t yet been shot dead suggested that the minister was no longer a threat – or not at this moment, anyway.