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They cleared the helicopter and quickly approached Matt and his father. The first of the figures – soldiers, they look like soldiers – stopped in front of them.
“Was an emergency call made from this house?” it asked. The voice was male, and didn’t sound much older than Matt’s.
Neither he nor his dad answered.
The soldier took a step forward.
“Was an emergency call made from this house?”
Terrified, Matt nodded his head.
The black figure turned to the others and beckoned them towards the house, then pushed past Matt and Greg Browning and disappeared into the hallway. The rest of the new arrivals followed, leaving Matt and his father in the doorway. They stood there, staring at the helicopter with no idea what to do, until Matt’s mother started to scream and they turned and ran into the house.
They found her in the kitchen, holding Laura in her arms, the two of them screaming in unison. Greg Browning ran across the room and took his wife in his arms, whispering to her, telling her everything was going to be OK, telling her not to cry. Matt left them by the table and walked out into the garden.
The two soldiers were standing either side of the girl, their guns lodged against their shoulders and pointing at the sky. On the ground, the man and woman in the biohazard suits were examining her.
Matt walked towards them, but before he was close enough to see what they were doing the nearest soldier turned towards him and levelled the black submachine gun at his chest. Matt froze on the spot.
“Please stay where you are, sir,” the soldier said. “For your own safety.”
“What’s going on here?” said a small voice from behind Matt. He was too scared to move, but he craned his head over his shoulder and saw his dad standing on the narrow patio. He looked like someone had deflated him.
“Take your son into the house, sir,” the soldier said.
“I want to know what’s going on,” Matt’s father repeated. “Who are you people?”
“I’m not going to tell you again, sir,” the soldier replied. He sounded as though he was reaching the limit of his patience. “Take your son inside. Now.”
Greg Browning looked like he was going to reply, but thought better of it.
“Come inside, Matt,” he said, eventually.
Matt looked from his father to the soldier pointing the gun at his chest. Behind him he could see the other soldier and the biohazard team watching him. He was about to turn and do as his father said when the girl lifted her head from the flowerbed and sank her teeth into the arm of the man in the white plastic suit.
All hell broke loose.
The man screamed and wrenched his arm out of the girl’s mouth. Blood pumped out of the ragged hole in the plastic, and splashed across the lawn.
The second soldier swung his gun. The heavy stock of the weapon crashed across the girl’s chin, and she instantly stopped moving, as though she had been turned off.
The soldier who had been facing Matt lowered his gun and turned to his colleagues.
“How bad is it?” he yelled.
The woman in the biohazard suit had knelt down next to her partner and was examining the wound. She looked up at the sound of the soldier’s voice.
“It’s bad,” she replied. “We need to get him out of here.”
“Bag the subject,” the soldier said. “Do it quickly.”
“There isn’t time. He needs clean blood, right now.”
“He’ll get it. Bag the subject.”
The woman stared at the soldier for a fraction of second, then let go of her colleague and laid the white stretcher flat on the lawn.
“Help me,” she said to the other soldier.
The soldier crouched down and took hold of the girl under her shoulders and pulled her out of the flowerbed. Matt gasped as he saw the damage to the lower half of the girl’s body.
Both her legs were snapped mid-thigh, the white bones piercing the blood-soaked black skirt she was wearing. Her left foot was horribly twisted at the ankle, and the right was missing three toes, the red stumps bright in the fading light.
Matt ran towards her. He didn’t know what he was going to do, just that he had to do something. He heard his father shout at him, but ignored him. The soldier who had hit the girl with his gun turned, saw him crossing the lawn, and started to move, a shout of warning issuing from his lips. But he wasn’t quick enough; Matt slid on to his knees beside the broken girl and looked at the woman in the biohazard suit.
“Can I hel—”
The girl’s arm flashed out and slid across his throat. Matt felt a millisecond of resistance as her fingernails dug into the smooth skin of his neck, then it was gone, and an enormous spray of something red burst into the night air, soaking his chin and his chest.
There was no pain; just surprise, and a suddenly overwhelming tiredness. Matt stared at the dark liquid squirting into the air, and only realised it was his own blood as he fell gently backwards on to the patchy grass of the lawn. It pattered thickly on to his upturned face, and as his eyes closed he felt hands pressing against his neck, and heard one of the soldiers telling his father that this had never happened.
Chapter 5
INTO THE DARKNESS
Jamie Carpenter dreamt of his father.
When he was ten his dad came home from work, holding his hand under his coat, and disappeared upstairs without saying hello to his son. Jamie’s mother was visiting her sister in Surrey, and after a moment he followed his father, treading on the balls of his feet, taking the steps one at a time, slowly.
Through the half-open bathroom door he saw his father standing with his right hand in the sink. There were spots of red on the mirror and the white porcelain.
Jamie crept across the landing. His father was running the hot tap over his hand, grimacing at the temperature. He turned the tap off and reached for a towel and Jamie saw his hand. There was a long bloody cut running from his wrist to his elbow, and in the middle of the gash something dark was sticking out, dirty brown against the red.
His father dabbed the blood away from the cut and slowly reached into the wound. He gritted his teeth, then pulled the dark object out of his arm, letting out a sharp grunt as it came free. Jamie stared. It looked like a fingernail, more than an inch long, sharp and curved like a talon. A chunk of ragged meat hung from the thick end of the nail, glistening white in the bright light of the bathroom.
He gasped. He hadn’t meant to. His father looked round sharply and Jamie stood rigid, speechless. His father opened his mouth as if to say something, then kicked the bathroom door shut, leaving Jamie standing on the dark landing.
Jamie drifted awake. He was moving, a loud car engine rumbling somewhere behind him, the sound of rain hammering against glass close to his head. He slowly opened his eyes and found himself looking out of a window at a dark forest, the trees blurring as they passed, water tumbling from the sky in sheets. He turned his head to the driver and cried out. Instinctively he reached for the passenger door handle and turned it, not caring what would happen if he jumped from a moving car, just knowing he had to get out, get away from the horror in the seat next to him.
“Don’t bother,” said the driver, his voice so loud that it drowned out the engine. “It’s locked.”
Jamie pressed himself against the door.
In the seat next to him was Frankenstein’s monster.
This is a dream. Isn’t it? It has to be, this can’t be real.
“It’s not polite to stare,” the monster said, and Jamie thought he heard the faintest hint of a laugh under the booming, granite voice.
“Who are you?” Jamie managed, his mind screaming warnings at him. Don’t talk to it! Are you stupid? Just shut up!
“My name is Victor Frankenstein. I did introduce myself. I assume you don’t remember?”
Jamie shook his head, and Frankenstein grunted.
“I suspected as much. Good thing I locked the doors.”
He laughed, a huge sound like a clap of thunder.
“There is only a certain amount I am permitted to tell you,” he continued. “I’m taking you to a safe place. My superior will tell you whatever else he decides you need to know.”
“Who is your superior?” asked Jamie.
No reply.
“I asked you a question,” he repeated, his voice rising. “Did you hear me?”
Frankenstein turned his enormous head and looked at Jamie.
“I heard you,” he said. “I chose not to answer.”
Jamie recoiled, and then the image of the blood on the bedroom windowsill crashed into his head, and he remembered.
“My mother,” he said, his eyes wide. “We have to go back for her.”
Frankenstein shot him a look of concern.
“We can’t go back,” he said. “She’s gone. You know that.”
Jamie fumbled his mobile phone out of his pocket, scrolled through his contacts until he found his mother’s number, keyed the green button and held it to his ear.
Nothing happened.
He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the glowing screen. The network logo that usually shone in the middle was gone, as was the bar that indicated the strength of his signal.
“Phones don’t work around here,” said Frankenstein.
Jamie grabbed again at the door handle, wrenching it until the plastic began to bend in his grip.
“Stop that!” roared Frankenstein. “You will be of no help to her if I have to scrape you off the tarmac!”
Jamie turned on the monster, his eyes blazing. “Stop the car!” he yelled. “Stop it right now! I have to help my mum!”
The car didn’t slow, but the huge man in the driver’s seat looked over at him.
“Your mother is gone,” he said, softly. “You may or may not believe me when I tell you I find that fact almost as distressing as you do. But the fact remains; she’s gone. And running around in the dark will not bring her back.”
Jamie stared angrily at the bolts in the huge man’s neck and, not for the first time, his mouth got the better of him.
“I thought Frankenstein was the creator, not the monster,” he muttered.
The brakes of the car squealed, the wheels locked and they slid to a halt. Frankenstein took a deep breath.
“Victor Frankenstein made me,” he said, his voice like ice. “And for a time I was a monster. But after Frankenstein died, I took his name. To honour him. Now, do you have any more impertinent questions, or should I get us to safety?”
Jamie nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.
Frankenstein didn’t respond.
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I heard you,” grunted the monster. “I accept your apology, as I accept the fact that you’re worried about your mother, and worry can make people say unwise things. I need you to accept that I share your concern about Marie, and that I’m taking you to the only people in the country who may be able to bring her back to you. And most of all, I need you to shut up and let me drive.”
Jamie turned away, and watched the road they were travelling on snake through the quiet forest. The trees were thick on all sides, blurred by the pounding rain, and the headlights of the car illuminated little more than the road itself, a single lane of concrete that looked oddly well-maintained in this deep countryside.
Every few minutes he looked over at the man in the driver’s seat. Frankenstein’s eyes were glued to the road, and he didn’t so much as glance in Jamie’s direction.
Around the car, the woods seemed to be thickening. Jamie leant forward and craned his neck upwards. He could no longer see the night sky; the trees had arched over the road from both sides and fused into an impenetrable ceiling of wood and leaves.
This didn’t just happen. This is a tunnel. Someone made this.
The car rounded a sharp corner, and Jamie gasped.
In front of them was a huge dark green gate. It stretched across the width of the road and disappeared into the canopy above them, leaving no edges in sight. In the middle of the gate hung a large white sign, illuminated by a strip light above it. Rain lashed against the bulb, sending running shadows across the sign, on which four lines of bright red text had been printed.
MINISTRY OF DEFENCETHIS IS A RESTRICTED AREAUNDER THE PROVISIONS OF THE OFFICIAL SECRETSACT NO TRESPASSING
Smoothly, and utterly silently, the enormous gate slid open. Beyond it was absolute darkness. There was a pause, then an artificial voice sounded through the rain.
“This is a restricted area. Please move your vehicle into authorisation.”
Frankenstein eased the car forward, and for a brief moment panic gripped Jamie.
Don’t go in there. Take me home. I want to go home.
The gate slid shut behind the car, cutting off the faint light from the woods.
“Place your vehicle in neutral,” the voice ordered, and Frankenstein did so.
Machinery whirred into life underneath their car and they began to move. They stopped after an unknowable distance, and then the car was enveloped by a pressurised cloud of white gas that billowed from beneath them, the noise of its release deafening in the enclosed space.
Jamie instinctively reached out and grabbed Frankenstein’s arm.
“What’s that?” he cried.
“It’s a spectroscope,” Frankenstein replied. “It detects the vapours released by explosives. It’s making sure we aren’t booby-trapped.”
He gently lifted Jamie’s hand from the sleeve of his coat and placed it back in the boy’s lap. The artificial voice spoke again.
