Titanic 2020: Cannibal City t2-2 Page 3

  Ty hesitantly began to raise his hand. 'Surely—'

  But Claire wasn't to be interrupted. 'You may ask how are we going to achieve this? After all, we are weak, and they are strong. But we have an instrument at our disposal with which to sway public opinion! The Titanic Times! We all believe in the freedom of the press, don't we?' The reporters nodded. 'Haven't we protected that freedom in the past by defying Captain Smith? And didn't he thank us for it in the end? And didn't we defy the mutineer Pedroza by continuing to publish the Times when everyone else had given up?' There were murmurs of agreement all round. 'Then we must do it again! This newspaper must mount a campaign to spare Babe's life! We must rally the people behind Babe! She represents our freedom, our liberty, our future! Are you with me on this?'

  Jimmy had to admit that she was a fantastically inspiring speaker. Their entire team of reporters and photographers, even the delivery boys and girls crowding in the doorway and the IT expert and the idiot who made the tea, they were all fired up.

  'Are you WITH ME?' Claire demanded again.

  And this time they all rose to their feet, clapping and punching the air and yelling: 'BABE! BABE! BABE!'

  All except Jimmy, of course, who slumped down at his desk and sighed.

  4

  The Campaign

  So began the campaign by the Titanic Times to save the life of Babe the Pig. Before very long every passenger and crew member aboard the ship was aware of Babe's plight — the other pigs were conveniently forgotten — even if they didn't immediately have an opinion on whether or not she should be put to the knife. There were news stories with huge headlines and heart-rending photographs on the front page of Babe being playful and nuzzling up to children; if she looked suspiciously clean or there appeared to be an almost human glint in her eye, well, that was just the way she was, and no suspicion that her image had been polished up by a computer program was ever aired. Nor was the campaign confined to the pages of the Times — badges were made, posters were printed, Save the Pig fundraising concerts were held. They had all survived The End of Civilisation As We Know It, the planet was in tatters and everyone's future was uncertain, but for a brief period the fate of Babe the Pig seemed like it was the most important thing in the world. It became what would once have been known as a cause célèbre.

  Jimmy, although he didn't really give a fiddler's elbow for what happened to the pig, was full of admiration for Claire and how she had mounted the campaign; he thought that Scoop, the decrepit old journalist who had attempted to teach them how to be good reporters — it seemed like an age ago — would have been surprised and delighted at Claire's progress. Yes, she was still sulky and spoiled, but when she got her teeth into a good story there was no stopping her. Stopping the captain getting his teeth into Babe was not, however, a foregone conclusion.

  On the fourth day out of Reunion Gap, word filtered down to the newsroom that the decision had been made to slaughter the pigs at nine p.m. that night. A special edition of the Times, appealing to Captain Smith to spare Babe's life, was rushed out. A candlelit vigil was held on the top deck attended by two hundred and fifty passengers and crew. Babe remained on the makeshift farm below deck, guarded by Mr Benson. He had been personally warned by Captain Smith, by Mr Stanford and by First Officer Jeffers that if the pig happened to just disappear, then so would he. Overboard.

  Claire, Jimmy, the rest of the reporting team and half a dozen of the passengers who had been most involved in the campaign gathered in the newspaper office at around six p.m. Their mood was sombre. They had done everything they could think of to convince the captain to spare Babe's life, but he had yet to give any indication that he had any intention of changing his mind.

  Claire dragged her eyes away from the clock on the wall. She slapped the top of her desk. 'We have to do something — something else!'

  'We've done everything,' said Ty. 'Everything we can think of.'

  'Well what haven't we thought of?'

  'If we knew that,' Ty replied, 'then we would already have—'

  'Quiet! I'm thinking.'

  Ty sighed. He looked around the glum faces. 'When the time comes. . . how do you think they'll . . . you know . . . do it?'

  Jimmy had an uncle who had once worked in an abattoir — or, he had once had an uncle who had once worked in an abattoir, because the chances were that the plague had killed him. Jimmy drummed his fingers on his desk to get attention. 'In a proper slaughterhouse they'd use a gun,' he said, and all eyes turned towards him. He raised two fingers to the back of his head. 'It actually fires a bolt. . .'

  'Is it painful?' one of the younger photographers, Alana, asked.

  'Well I'm sure it's not very pleasant, but at least it's quick. Doesn't matter, though — because they're not going to have a bolt-gun down below.'

  'So what will they do?'

  Jimmy mimed slicing a knife across his throat, then waved his hands around to indicate blood spurting everywhere.

  Everyone looked a little paler after that.

  Claire stood abruptly. 'We can't allow this to happen. We have to seize control of the radio station.'

  The Titanic had a small radio and television centre which, in the days when it was still operating as a cruise ship, had been used to broadcast news about events on the ship to the passengers' rooms. The television station had been lying dormant since the plague had struck, but the radio channel continued to be used by Captain Smith to talk directly to passengers and to monitor the airwaves for plague survivors.

  'Why?' Ty asked.

  'Because we've done our best with the newspaper — now we have to appeal directly to everyone on board and get them to go to Deck 3. If we get enough of them down there we can overpower the guards and get Babe out of there.'

  Instinctively all eyes turned to Jimmy. Nobody had ever quite said it, but he was the boss. He was aware that they were looking expectantly at him. Over the past few months he had matured — he was more responsible, his head was screwed on a bit tighter. But he still liked causing a bit of trouble. He had allowed Claire to run the campaign to save Babe because he wasn't particularly bothered about the fate of the pig, but this kind of direct action appealed to him. He had never liked rules and regulations. He nodded slowly.

  'OK,' he said finally, 'that sounds like a plan. We need to lure the radio operator out, then barricade ourselves inside. Anyone know how to operate the radio?'

  One of the reporters, Christopher, thirteen years old but already wearing a half-grown moustache, cautiously raised his hand. 'My daddy owns — owned — a radio station. Been around it all my life, I reckon.'

  'OK,' said Jimmy, 'no time to lose. Let's get going, we'll work out how to do it on the way...'

  Claire was first to the door. She smiled hopefully back at Jimmy as she pulled at the handle — it seemed to be stuck — and then pulled again.

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. 'Let me, earthling.' He pulled it hard. And again. But it wouldn't budge. 'It's locked — from the outside!'

  Claire looked incredulous. 'But who . . . ?'

  Jimmy shook his head. 'Who do you think?'

  Realisation dawned on Claire. 'The captain? But why would . . . ?'

  'Because he knows what we're like.'

  The reporters and photographers and campaigners had crowded in behind Jimmy and Claire to follow them out. Now Claire pushed her way back through them to her desk and lifted her phone. She punched in the number for the bridge and tapped her foot impatiently while she waited for it to be answered.

  'I want to speak to Captain Smith, now,' she demanded.

  After another minute, the captain came on the line. 'Ah, Claire,' he said pleasantly. 'How are you?'

  'I'm mad as hell!' Claire erupted.

  'Yes, I imagine you are. However, locking you in seemed a prudent course of action. I really can't have you disrupting the ship, my dear, and although I haven't a clue what you were planning, I'm quite certain that you were planning something and therefore I decided to nip it
in the bud. You will stay where you are until the . . . uhm, deed is done.'

  'You can't do this!'

  'Yes I can.'

  'My daddy—'

  'Your father has approved my action.'

  A tear rolled down Claire's cheek. 'Please, Captain Smith, don't do this. Don't kill my Babe.'

  'I'm sorry Claire, but it will be done. I understand your position, and you have mounted an admirable campaign to save the animal. But it is not a precedent I wish to set. I'm sorry.'

  Claire felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to find Jimmy standing beside her. He indicated that he wished to speak to the captain himself.

  'It's no good, Jimmy,' said Claire, 'he won't change his mind.'

  Jimmy nodded, but still held his hand out for the phone. Claire sighed and passed it across. She slumped down at her desk and buried her head in her hands. Jimmy raised the phone to his ear.

  'Captain, it's Jimmy.' Captain Smith mmm-hmmed. 'Is there nothing we can do?'

  'No, son. Leave it now, all right?'

  Jimmy took a deep breath. 'OK. That's your decision.' Claire looked up, fury freshly etched on her tear-stained face. 'But I have to ask your permission to allow a reporter to attend the execution. We've covered the story up until now and it's only right that we should be represented at the end.'

  There was a moment's hesitation. Then Captain Smith said, 'Very well. You may send a representative. But I warn you — no funny business.'

  'You have my word.'

  Jimmy put the receiver down.

  Claire looked at him in disbelief. 'You . . . just — gave in! You didn't put up any kind of a fight at all!'

  'Claire, there's no point. He's made his mind up.'

  Everyone was looking at him now.

  Ty punched him lightly on the shoulder. 'You have a plan — don't you . . . ?'

  Jimmy shook his head. 'No, Ty. No plan. Now who wants to go?'

  There were no volunteers.

  'OK then.' Jimmy lifted a camera and pushed his way back through to the door. He knocked on it, and a few moments later it was opened by First Officer Jeffers. He looked warily at the little group. Jimmy glanced back at Claire, gave a little shrug, and stepped into the gap.

  The door was locked behind him. The imprisoned campaigners talked quietly or busied themselves with small tasks, trying to block out thoughts of what might be happening in the fake farmyard. But as the hands on the clock moved inexorably towards nine p.m. all work ceased.

  Nine o'clock came.

  Tears were shed.

  Claire stared at her computer.

  Nine-thirty arrived without any news. Nobody wanted to phone the bridge because nobody wanted to be the first to hear the bad news.

  Finally, at a few minutes before ten a key was turned and the door opened. Jimmy stood there. Claire forced herself to look up from her screen. Jimmy's face was pale, the set of his mouth grim.

  'Well?' Ty asked.

  Jimmy took a deep breath. 'I have bad news, and I have good news.' He nodded around the news team. 'Which do you want to hear first?'

  'The bad.' That was Claire. She was wringing her hands together.

  'The bad news is that Babe was slaughtered at five past nine.' There was a communal groan. 'It was over quickly. She made no sound.'

  'And the good news?' Claire falteringly asked.

  Jimmy hesitated for a moment before producing a brown paper bag from behind his back.

  'Fresh sausages!'

  It was, he later acknowledged, a spectacular misjudgement. He had thought a joke might lighten the mood. There weren't actually sausages in the bag, he didn't actually walk in with bits of Babe minced up into pork bangers, but there might as well have been, given the instant, revolted reaction from his captive audience. If he hadn't had the presence of mind to realise the extent of his mistake and throw himself back out into the corridor and slam the door shut and lock it, they would have turned him into sausage meat.

  Jimmy stood breathing heavily while the door was battered hard by the angry mob inside.

  He rubbed at his brow, suddenly aware that his moment of stupidity had quite probably robbed him of all the respect he'd worked so hard to achieve.

  Jimmy cautiously approached the door. 'Listen, folks, I'm really sorry — I was only trying to—'

  'JIMMY ARMSTRONG.' It was Claire, her voice as cold and hard as he had ever heard it. 'I WILL NEVER SPEAK TO YOU AGAIN AS LONG AS I LIVE.'

  5

  The Old Man

  Claire meant it. She hated Jimmy Armstrong. She would never speak to him again. He tried to apologise to her in half a dozen different ways, but she heard none of it — he might as well have been whispering in a force ten gale. She gave no indication that she was even aware of his existence.

  Which made running the newspaper rather difficult.

  In fact, nobody was speaking to him. Claire had a secret meeting with the news team early the next morning to decide what to do if he did turn up for work — he was, after all, still their boss. It was suggested that they quit their jobs, but they enjoyed working there too much to go along with that. If anyone was to quit it should be Jimmy — and if he wouldn't do it voluntarily they would force him out by sending him to Coventry. This was an old expression meaning to give someone the silent treatment.

  If he was bold enough to come to work.

  Nobody wanted to see him, but everyone was there to see if he turned up.

  The working day usually started at nine a.m. Jimmy was always late. At ten-past nine there was no sign of him. At half-past he had still not turned up. They were just beginning to relax by ten when the door opened and Jimmy sauntered in, cup of tea in hand and smiling widely.

  'Morning all,' he said, crossing to his desk.

  Silence.

  'Beautiful out there — never seen the sea so calm.'

  Silence.

  'OK then, let's see what we have on today.' Jimmy took out the diary, a large red book which showed the various assignments he had to give to the reporters and photographers each day. Ninety-nine per cent of the time these were stories which needed to be covered on board ship, but occasionally, like today, there was something more exciting — overnight the Titanic had dropped anchor off another new settlement, this one called Tucker's Hole. They had requested medical assistance. Captain Smith was sending Dr Hill and a team of nurses ashore to help treat an outbreak of chicken pox — a disease that would once have been routinely dealt with, but since medicines were no longer readily available was now much more dangerous — in fact, potentially lethal. Places had been set aside on the speedboat for a reporter and photographer from the Times. Normally Jimmy's team would have been fighting to get ashore — but this morning when he asked for volunteers, not a single hand was raised.

  Jimmy shrugged. 'OK then, I'll go myself.' Everyone kept their eyes down. 'But I still need a photographer.'

  Still nobody volunteered.

  'OK. Claire, as chief photographer, I'm selecting you to go ashore. See you up top in fifteen minutes. And seeing as how you've all lost the power of speech, I'll email you all your assignments before I go.'

  Jimmy switched on his computer and set to work.

  ***

  Tucker's Hole was set near the mouth of a small river and had been entirely constructed from panels of wood looted from a Home Depot about half a mile away. It was, essentially, a town constructed from garden sheds.

  As the inflatable approached the shore, Dr Hill shouted out what had become a familiar list of orders. 'Don't get separated from the group! Stick together! Be pleasant, be respectful, but don't trust anyone! Do not wander off! If you see anything suspicious report it to me immediately! If you do get separated from the group and cannot make it back, the alternative pick-up point is two clicks to the east of the river — you've seen it on the map, so don't forget it!'

  Jimmy always felt excited on these trips — because the unknown lay ahead. Everything had changed since the plague. They might be speeding
towards a happy community full of jolly optimists — or into a violent ambush. The reality usually lay somewhere in the middle. The Titanic brought hope, and it also brought jealousy over the relatively good standard of living on board. It brought relief, but it also reinforced the knowledge that life could never be the same again. Usually he shared this excitement with Claire, but she sat stiff and remote. She would normally be snapping away by now, but the camera lay neglected in her lap. He smiled at her. She ignored him.

  The clinic was set up in one of the larger huts and a queue of anxious mothers with their spotty children and pale-looking, blotchy orphans soon formed. Other women and children stood around watching from doorways or perched on teetering piles of wooden frames. The surrounding houses themselves stretched back for nearly two hundred metres, most of them running crookedly into each other. Some of their owners had added inadequate little chimneys which only seemed to disperse about half of the smoke from the small fires within, leaving the rest to blacken the faces and clog the lungs of their inhabitants. There was no system for getting rid of the sewage, and garbage lay everywhere. Rats wandered undisturbed. Jimmy had visited many settlements, but this was the worst yet. Winter had not yet arrived, but when it did he doubted if Tucker's Hole would survive for long.

  Jimmy was pleased at least to see that the squalor had inspired Claire to wield her camera. Ordinarily he would have suggested ideas for photographs, or she would have sought his advice, but he decided it was better to keep his distance. Instead, after quickly checking that Dr Hill was too busy to keep a proper eye on him, Jimmy ducked into one of the narrow alleys that lay between the houses and began to make his way into the heart of Tucker's Hole. He was intrigued by the fact that there seemed to be no men around — yet he was sure he could hear them: raucous voices, snatches of songs. As he negotiated his way towards the enclosed centre of the settlement, scabby-faced children gawped at him as he passed. His first clue as to what awaited him came when he had to step over a man lying face down and snoring, clearly completely drunk. Then he found a pair of them, arms round each other as if they'd been singing together and then had collapsed into unconsciousness at the same time. There was a half spilled bottle beside them. Jimmy picked it up — there was a clear liquid within. He sniffed it cautiously — and his head shot back, his nostrils burning. This was what they called 'moonshine' in America, or 'poteen' back home in Ireland. Pure alcohol that was so strong it could turn you blind or kill you if it wasn't made in just the right way.