Titanic 2020: Cannibal City Page 7

  Jimmy just stared at him furiously. ‘You are not the President.’

  The old man clasped his hands in his lap. ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ Jimmy snapped. ‘I’ve seen him. He’s twenty years younger than you. Thirty.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you, Jimmy.’

  ‘Good. You’d lose.’

  The old man laughed. ‘You’re not afraid of your own voice, are you Jimmy? Have you considered the fact that we are on a train full of soldiers, every one of them more than willing to put a bullet in your brain if I order them to?’

  Jimmy bit his lip. He hadn’t actually thought about the consequences of opening his mouth. He rarely did.

  ‘I thought not.’ The old man nodded to himself. ‘Well,’ he continued, ‘perhaps a little bit of anger is no bad thing. Shows you have spirit. Let me put it another way for you. I am not the President of the United States that you may remember. My name is Daniel Blackthorne, and before this great plague I was a senator representing the great state of Nebraska. I was in Washington when the plague came, and then the President disappeared – dead, as far as anyone knows – so power passed to the next in line, and then he died, and so it went, passing on down the line until it got to me. I am the last elected official in these United States. So yes, James Armstrong, as far as you are concerned, I am the President of the United States, and it’s my job to rebuild them. That’s what I’m doing.’

  Jimmy had no reason to doubt what this Daniel Blackthorne was saying. But it didn’t explain why he was riding around in a train with a bunch of kids with guns, or why he had appeared on that stage in the village pretending that he was a feeble old man.

  So he asked him.

  Blackthorne rose from his chair and came towards him. Jimmy fought the urge to take a step or twelve backwards. The President, now that he was right up close, towered over him. He looked down at Jimmy and clasped his shoulders. His gaze was intense.

  ‘Jimmy, I go from settlement to settlement and I pretend to be a passing traveller bringing news. But what I’m really trying to do is inspire people, get them thinking. America wasn’t built by accountants and civil servants and people who run grooming parlours for dogs. It was built by heroes, it was built by adventurers who spat in the eyes of fear, who didn’t know when to stop trying, who never considered giving up. And that’s the problem, Jimmy, people have given up. They sit in these ramshackle villages moaning and whining and waiting to be rescued, and it’s just not going to happen. I’m building something new, Jimmy, but I can’t take everyone with me. I want people with imagination and ambition and vision, I want people prepared to take a chance. So I sow the seeds. I tell them about the President, I tell them about the train. And if they’re brave enough and bright enough, they’ll work out how to find me. People like you, son, kids like you who still have those kinds of guts.’ He squeezed Jimmy’s shoulders and smiled benevolently. ‘So that’s my pitch, son. I’m building these United States from the bottom up, and I need good men to help me. It’ll be hard. It’ll be dangerous. But by God, it’ll be an adventure!’

  It was an inspiring speech, delivered passionately.

  It prompted a hundred jumbled thoughts.

  But Jimmy didn’t have time to think them all through.

  All he was certain of was that he was being held prisoner on a train full of heavily-armed kids who were under the control of a nut who thought he was the President of the United States.

  ‘So what do you say, Jimmy, are you with me?’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr President!’

  12

  Maggots

  After a long, sleepless night – she would have tossed and turned, but her bandaged arm and IV drip prevented her from doing either – at the first hint of dawn light Claire finally rang the bell beside her bed and demanded of the bleary-eyed nurse who eventually arrived that Dr Hill come and release her from her purgatory. By the time he arrived, an hour later, Claire was fuming. She had already phoned her dad upstairs to find out exactly why she was being kept a virtual prisoner.

  ‘Doesn’t he know who I am?’ she had demanded.

  ‘I think he has a fair idea,’ her father responded, and hung up.

  She wasn’t just fuming about being kept in the hospital wing when she was obviously completely fine. She was fuming because the Titanic had dropped anchor off its next port of call; passengers were shortly going to be dropped ashore, others picked up, and the usual medical and scavenging teams would do their jobs as well. She wanted to go with them. She wanted to search for Jimmy. Claire was also fuming because the nurse, in a misguided attempt to keep her nice and calm, had given her a copy of the Titanic Times to read. Ordinarily this might have worked – but the copy was two days old. Claire had immediately demanded that morning’s edition – the Times was printed late at night, and delivered in the early hours so that passengers and crew could read it over breakfast – only to be told that there wasn’t one. Claire had told her that there must be and had ordered her to go and get one. The nurse had given her a stern look and spun on her heel. She returned ten minutes later and announced with no little pleasure that there was no Titanic Times that morning, that it hadn’t been printed and that no one had any idea when the next edition might appear.

  At this point Dr Hill arrived. He endured a five-minute rant while examining Claire’s charts. Then he endured another five minutes of it while he carefully unwrapped her bandages and examined her wound.

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ Claire complained. ‘You can’t keep me here.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Dr Hill, ‘we have restraints and a nice straitjacket, so we can. We just choose not to. But I’d very much prefer it if you would stay in here – nice and quiet and stationary, so your arm has a chance to recover.’

  Claire was having none of it. ‘I’m fine. I need out of here. I need to go ashore.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you mean no?’

  ‘What I say.’

  ‘But I’m better. Wasn’t I able to walk all the way up to see Captain Smith last night?’

  ‘Yes you were. But then you had to be brought back here on a stretcher.’

  ‘Only because I’m all woozy because of the drugs you gave me!’

  ‘No, Claire, you’re all woozy because of the blood you’ve lost. You will stay here for another twenty-four hours, minimum. And then you’ll only be allowed out if I see positive signs of improvement, the kind which only come with lying still and doing nothing and letting the maggots do their work.’

  Claire’s head jerked to one side. ‘The WHAT?’

  Dr Hill nodded down at the bandage, which he had now peeled away and set on a small stand beside her bed. It was alive with little, white, twisty-turny creatures about a centimetre long. Claire looked horrified.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Dr Hill, gloating at her discomfort. ‘Maggots, of the green blowfly variety. We’re a bit short of antibiotics Claire, and to tell you the truth these little beauties work one heck of a lot better. We breed them here on board. They eat all the dead tissue away – stops you getting infected.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . but . . .’

  ‘They’re saving your life, Claire.’

  ‘But – they’re . . . maggots . . .’

  ‘Yup – and now we need a fresh batch.’ Dr Hill turned and nodded at his nurse, who handed him the replacements already secured in a fresh bandage. He began to tape it into place. ‘So Claire – rest, relax, and let them do their job.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No buts.’

  ‘Jimmy—’

  ‘Rest.’

  ‘I have to go ashore—’

  ‘Relax.’

  ‘I have to find out about the paper—’

  ‘It can wait.’

  ‘But what if the maggots get into my bloodstream, into my brain . . . ?’

  ‘Claire, that hardly ever happens. It’s been several days since anyone . . .’

  Claire stared at him. Then she
stared at the open bandage and the mass of maggots. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and then her head hit the pillow. She had fainted.

  The nurse looked at Dr Hill. ‘It . . . it doesn’t really ever happen, does it . . . ?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Dr Hill. ‘But she doesn’t need to know that.’

  He smiled briefly down at Claire before turning away. It was time to go ashore.

  She slept for twelve hours. She didn’t dream. There was no dramatic fever. When she opened her eyes and scanned the room her only hope was that Jimmy had somehow miraculously returned.

  But there was only the sterile, empty room.

  She did, at least, feel significantly better. The wooziness was gone. The IV had been removed while she slept and a small plaster covered where the needle had attached it to her good arm. Her wound boasted a new bandage, less bulky than the previous ones, which, she hoped, suggested that the maggots had satisfactorily completed their work. When the nurse came in with a cup of hot tea for her, Claire asked if she’d heard what had happened ashore, but she just shook her head. Twenty minutes later First Officer Jeffers appeared in the doorway. He smiled across and Claire allowed herself a brief moment of hope.

  ‘Did you find . . . Jimmy?’

  The smile faded. ‘No, Claire, sorry. We searched, we talked to the locals, there was no sign of him. It was always a long shot.’ He could see that Claire’s lower lip was trembling. He sat on the edge of the bed. He thought for a moment about taking her hand, but decided against it. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Claire,’ he said quietly. ‘Remember that. And he’s a survivor. He may not be with us, but he’s probably still out there somewhere, causing trouble.’

  That won half a smile from her.

  ‘I know it’s hard losing your boyfriend like that.’

  Her eyes grew suddenly cool. ‘He wasn’t my boyfriend,’ she snapped.

  Dr Hill finally gave her the all-clear to leave the hospital – but only on condition that it was under the supervision of her parents. When she called her father to tell him the good news he said they would be down in five minutes. Claire waited for them for the next hour. She phoned them three times, and on each occasion was told they’d be another five minutes. She held her temper in check. She knew what the problem was – her mother refused to go anywhere without her war paint on. Even Claire had rarely seen her natural face; it was almost always covered in thick make-up.

  The nurse rolled a wheelchair in.

  ‘I’m not getting into that,’ said Claire.

  ‘Yes you are.’

  ‘Yes I am,’ said Claire.

  She wasn’t going to do or say anything else that might jeopardise her freedom. She settled into the wheelchair.

  Her mother finally swept into the hospital, followed by her exasperated-looking husband.

  ‘Claire, darling! We came as quickly as we could! My sweet girl is coming home!’

  Behind her, Mr Stanford rolled his eyes.

  ‘Just . . . get . . . me . . . out of here!’ Claire hissed through gritted teeth.

  Dr Hill warned her for the third time that she would have to rest. Claire nodded.

  ‘Claire, I know that nod.’ He gave her a hard look. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I know you mean it,’ said Claire.

  Mrs Stanford wiped at a tear. ‘My little girl – in a wheelchair!’

  ‘Mother,’ said Claire, ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘I know dear, I know. You will walk again, I know it.’

  Claire sighed and looked at her father. ‘Please get me out of here!’

  Mr Stanford waited for an approving nod from Dr Hill, then took hold of the handles and began to roll her forward. Mrs Stanford followed behind, dabbing her damp cheeks with a handkerchief.

  Claire was pushed out of the hospital, along the corridor and into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed she pushed herself up and out of the chair.

  ‘Claire . . .’ her father began.

  ‘She can walk!’ her mother exclaimed.

  ‘Dad, I’m fine.’ Her father had pushed the button for their penthouse cab in on the sixteenth floor. Claire pressed the button for the sixth. The elevator stopped almost immediately and the doors opened.

  ‘Claire – what on earth do you think you’re doing?’ her father asked.

  Claire raised calming hands towards her parents. ‘I’m going to work.’ She stepped out into the corridor. As the doors began to close her mother clasped her hands in front of her. ‘It’s a miracle,’ she whispered.

  Ten minutes after discovering the offices of the Titanic Times both empty and locked, Claire tracked Ty down to the restaurant on the twelfth floor. He was happily working his way through a plate of doughnuts.

  She stood behind him. ‘Enjoying those . . .?’

  Ty started to nod – but then he recognised the voice and his latest doughnut’s happy trajectory towards his mouth stopped halfway there. He turned slowly. She looked furious.

  ‘Ccc-ccclaire . . . how are you . . . ?’ His lips were coated with sugar. ‘I came – I came to see you . . . but you were . . . asleep . . .’

  ‘Why has the Titanic Times not appeared?’

  ‘We didn’t—’

  ‘Why is the office locked?’

  ‘We thought—’

  There was a terrible cold fury about her. ‘FIND EVERYONE. GET THEM TO THE OFFICE IN THE NEXT TEN MINUTES OR TONIGHT YOU WILL SLEEP WITH THE FISHES.’

  Ty’s heart was beating wildly. He knew Claire had a temper. They all knew she had one. But he had never experienced it so intensely before. She glared at him for a very long five seconds – during which not a single word of explanation or apology managed to make its way from his brain to his mouth.

  Then she pointed. ‘GO!’

  Ty looked at his doughnuts. He looked at Claire. He pushed the plate away, stood up and ran.

  It was actually about thirty minutes before the editorial team, the IT guy, the delivery boys and girls and the idiot who just wandered around looking helpless were all assembled. They had entered the office in ones and twos, all of them looking sheepish. Nobody wanted to be first to speak. Claire sat staring at a switched off screen, acknowledging no one.

  Eventually Ty plucked up the courage. ‘Claire, I think we’re all—’

  ‘Quiet.’

  Ty blew air out of his cheeks. Quietly.

  Claire rose to her feet. She looked around the room. She made eye contact with every single one of them, and even those who had been staring at the ground somehow knew to raise their eyes when Claire’s deadly gaze fell upon them.

  ‘I am shocked,’ said Claire.

  It sat in the air.

  ‘I am horrified.’

  It sat in the air beside her shock.

  ‘I await an explanation as to the non-appearance of the Titanic Times.’

  ‘Well,’ Ty began bravely, ‘with Jimmy dead and you shot we thought . . .’

  Ty stopped. He knew immediately that he had said something very, very wrong.

  ‘Don’t you ever say that again!’ Claire towered over him as he sat at his own screen. ‘Jimmy is not dead. He is alive. And he will find his way back to us. Do you understand?’

  Ty nodded.

  ‘Do all of you understand?’

  Everyone nodded. Ty was still nodding.

  Claire’s icy gaze roved around the room like the searchlight at a prison camp from which nobody was brave enough to attempt an escape.

  ‘Now I want you all to listen to me.’

  As if they weren’t. They were too scared not to.

  ‘Jimmy made the Times. He turned it from a boring little news-sheet designed to keep lazy, fat passengers happy into what it is today – the paper of record. What we’ve been writing over these past few months – it’s history. It’s important. People need to know what’s going on out there. How we set about surviving. They’re scared. We’ve all lost friends and relatives. We give them hope. We show them that there is a way forward. It i
s our responsibility to make sure that the Times appears each and every day. It is a little bit of certainty in an uncertain world.’ And then she surprised them by letting out a small chuckle. A very small chuckle – but it was something. ‘I’m just thinking how Jimmy would’ve reacted to what I’m saying. He’d say, “Claire, get over yourself, it’s only a bloody newspaper.”’ At least two of the other girls, and one of the boys, had tears in their eyes. ‘He would say it, and he would mean it – but I’m telling you, if anyone messed with the paper he would fight tooth and nail to make sure it survived, and that’s what we have to do. We don’t give up the Times for any reason. If Jimmy’s gone, it continues. If I’m gone, it continues. The Times is not Jimmy, it’s not me, it’s not even the Titanic – it’s all of us. Do you understand?’

  They all nodded.

  Even those who hadn’t a clue what she was talking about. Like the idiot who made the tea badly.

  ‘OK, then let’s not let it happen again. The Times appears every day without fail – starting tomorrow morning. That means getting to work now. OK?’

  Claire had surprised herself with the passion of her speech, but it was working. They were smiling now, they were up for it. It was such a relief. She clapped her hands together. ‘OK. Ty – you know the Titanic’s lost half her power and we’re heading for New York?’

  ‘Uh, no . . .’

  ‘Well neither does anyone else! Get on it!’

  ‘Andy?’ A skinny boy with freckles and glasses looked up eagerly. ‘I want an article on Jimmy, his whole life story.’

  ‘But I don’t really know what—’

  ‘Find out! That’s your job!’

  ‘Debs?’ A pretty blond girl stood to attention. ‘Talk to everyone who came aboard today, find out what happened in their settlement, how they ended up there, where they’re going . . .’