Titanic 2020: Cannibal City t2-2 Page 6

  Jimmy smiled — something good at last. It had to lead somewhere.

  Turn left, turn right?

  Jimmy turned to his left. He walked for five metres.

  Then he turned back and began to walk to his right.

  It felt better, somehow.

  The track ahead curved around a bend . . .

  That's where he found the President's train.

  9

  The Engine

  She woke suddenly, like someone had just switched her back on. She knew immediately where she was because she'd spent so much time there during the plague. The Titanic's hospital wing. In a nice clean bed. Her arm bandaged, but not sore. A pleasant buzz in her head. Drugs to kill the pain. An IV tube attached to her good arm. She had two thoughts:

  I'm alive.

  And then: Jimmy!

  There was a dull throb beneath her. That meant the Titanic was moving. Claire threw her covers back and swung her legs off the bed. She stood up, and immediately a wave of dizzy nausea hit her and she sat right back down again. A nurse appeared in the doorway and hurried across, waving a warning finger.

  'No, no, no, young lady. I don't think so.'

  The nurse reached down and lifted Claire's legs back up on to the bed.

  She lay back on the pillow — then almost immediately sat up again. 'My father, I need to speak to my—'

  'All in good time.'

  'I WANT TO SPEAK TO HIM NOW!'

  Her legs might have been weak, but her voice was strong.The nurse quickly backed away. 'I'll get Dr Hill.'

  'MY FATHER! I WANT . . .'

  Dr Hill, alerted by the shouting, was already on his way in. 'Ah, Claire, how are you—'

  'Where's Jimmy?'

  'How's the arm?'

  'Where's Jimmy?'

  'You almost lost it, you know, it was a bad wound, and infected.'

  'Tell me where Jimmy is!'

  'We don't know,' Dr Hill said bluntly.

  It hit her like a hammer blow.

  'What do you mean you don't know?'

  'We just don't know. We searched for him, Claire, but no trace.'

  The door opened again and Claire's mother came rushing in, quickly followed by her father.

  'Oh darling, darling! You're awake . . . my poor, poor sweet girl!'

  Mrs Stanford bent down for a hug and kiss. Claire ignored her. Her eyes bore into her father.

  'Dad. What about Jimmy?'

  'I'm sorry, Claire.'

  'That's not good enough!'

  'We did our best! Now you have to tell us what happened.'

  'Did that wretched boy try to kill you?' her mother asked.

  'WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?' Claire exploded. 'The preacher tried to kill both of us! The reverend! The minister! We had to run, we got separated. There was all this shooting . . . I fell, I fell and there was more shooting . . . Jimmy . . .' Claire abruptly burst into tears. Her mother moved in for another hug. Claire shrugged her off. 'No!' She dragged her arm across her face. 'You didn't look hard enough! We have to go back! Why are we even sailing, we need to know what. . . aaaaow!'

  Dr Hill had snuck up on her other side and jabbed her good arm with a syringe. As he pushed the plunger in he said, 'I'm sorry Claire, but you need to rest. You've been through a major trauma and the surgery . . .'

  But she was already asleep.

  They stood around the bed, looking down at her. She was still deathly pale and the skin on her face was pulled tight by a dozen lacerations.

  'You didn't think it wise to tell her?' her father asked.

  Dr Hill shook his head. 'I don't think it would have helped.'

  One of the patrols had found Jimmy's footprints and a spray of blood on a tree trunk with a bullet hole in it.

  'She'll sleep until tomorrow,' said Dr Hill. 'I gave her enough sedative to knock out a horse.'

  'She's not a horse,' observed Mr Stanford. 'Horses can be trained.'

  ***

  It was after three a.m. and nearly all of the passengers and crew were asleep. Others passed the dark hours by watching a movie in the ship's cinema or ice skated. On the top deck an elderly man who had lost his wife to the plague was approaching the summit of the climbing wall. He climbed it every night. He had no idea why. Benson snored uneasily in the makeshift farmyard. In the engine room, having been summoned from his own slumbers, Jonas Jones cursed furiously before storming out. He made his way to the captain's quarters and hammered on his door. It was a full minute before a rather dishevelled-looking Captain Smith opened up.

  'Jonas? What is it?'

  'It's trouble, that's what it is.'

  Without waiting to be invited the engineer stepped into the cabin. The captain, in dressing gown and pyjamas, watched his old friend stride across to a small table, pull a chair out and sit down heavily.

  Forty minutes later they were still talking urgently when they became aware of a noise outside the cabin — light footsteps perhaps, but with an accompanying grating sound, like a prisoner dragging a ball and chain. They exchanged glances. Neither of them was superstitious, but it sounded like a ghost might sound — in a very bad movie.

  Captain Smith moved to the door, hesitated for a moment, then flung it open.

  Claire was standing there, her fist already raised to hammer on it. Her IV was still attached to her arm and to its stand. She had dragged it all the way from the hospital. Her hair lay dank upon her head and sweat was rolling down her brow. But her eyes burned with determination.

  'You . , . will . . . turn this ship . . . around now . . !

  She staggered forward, and the IV tripod would have toppled behind her if the captain hadn't caught it. Jonas Jones jumped up, took hold of Claire and guided her across to his chair. As he lowered her into it he purred softly, 'Easy now, girl.'

  'I'm OK . . . I'm all right. . . tired . . .' She took a deep breath. Sweat dripped on to the floor. 'Captain . . . Smith. We have to go back for Jimmy. We have to.'

  Captain Smith reached across and patted her hand gently. 'Claire, we can't.'

  'Of course you can! You just . . . turn her round and we go back and we search . . . until we find him. He's out there still . . . I know it. Captain Smith?' She slipped her hand free and instead took hold of his hand and squeezed it hard. 'Captain Smith — have you forgotten what Jimmy did for you, for us, for the Titanic? He saved us. You owe him. We all owe him.'

  Captain Smith nodded slowly. 'I appreciate how much we owe him, Claire. We searched thoroughly. We did everything we could. But he's gone. These are dangerous times, Claire. He's gone. You're going to have to accept it.'

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. 'But he must be alive. He's Lucky Jimmy Armstrong.'

  'Nobody's that lucky, Claire.'

  'Please.'

  Jonas Jones patted her shoulder. 'Claire, the captain's right. We did our best. And we really can't go back. We have engine trouble.'

  Claire blinked at him. She was still a Times reporter. 'What . . . are you talking about? What kind of engine trouble?'

  'Big engine trouble. We're going to limp to the next port and try to make some temporary repairs. If we're lucky they might just be enough to get us to New York.'

  'New York? Why . . . ?'

  'Well, I've always wanted to go there.' He smiled. 'But mostly it's the only place this side of the Atlantic we might be able to get the part we need.'

  'And what if you can't?'

  'Well then, enjoy your time on board, because this is the last voyage of the Titanic.'

  10

  The President's Train

  Lucky Jimmy Armstrong had vaguely heard of Air Force One, the President's private jet. He seemed to remember him flying around the world in it, solving problems or causing them. But he'd never heard of a Presidential train. Nevertheless, with a scar on his cheek and hurting from head to toe, Jimmy ran towards it as it sat idling on the tracks a hundred metres ahead of him as if he was finishing a race. He could now see an American eagle emblazoned on the rear of the
last carriage, and the Stars and Stripes flying above it.

  Finally my luck has changed!

  I'm bound for the Promised Land — and if they don't let me on board, well, I'll stow away, I'm good at that!

  The first shot stopped him dead. It pinged off the rusting track a little to his left. The second shot, this time to his right, made him raise his hands.

  He immediately realised how stupid he'd been — running at the President's train! These were dangerous times, people had been driven to madness by the collapse of civilisation. The President's security guards would be nervous of someone just charging out of the woods — he might have a gun or bomb or anything.

  Three men dressed in army fatigues climbed down from the rear carriage and advanced cautiously, rifles trained on him. As they drew closer Jimmy saw that they weren't actually that much older than him — surely no more than sixteen. Two had cropped hair. The third boy, who seemed to be in charge, had a Mohican.

  'Who are you?' Mohican snapped. 'What do you want?'

  'This is the President's train?' Jimmy asked.

  'Sure.'

  One of the crop-heads began to search him.

  'I heard he was setting up some new settlement. Thought I might be able to help.'

  'You? How?'

  'I'll tell him that.'

  Mohican snorted. He nodded to his comrades. 'Bring him.'

  They took a rough hold of him and guided him to the back carriage. Mohican went aboard first. Inside Jimmy saw that about half of the seats were occupied by similarly dressed soldiers — and none of them appeared to be any older than the boys accompanying him. Some were considerably younger. But they were all carrying guns.

  Jimmy was led through two similar carriages. As they entered the next one, the train began to move.

  Mohican motioned to an empty seat.

  'Wait here,' he snapped before continuing on. Jimmy sat. The two other guards remained by the door behind him. The seats in this carriage were also half occupied, again by boys of roughly his age — but none of them were wearing army fatigues, and they all looked every bit as nervous as he was.

  Jimmy nodded at the boy on the other side of the aisle from him. The boy nodded back. There was something vaguely familiar about him.

  'I know you,' said Jimmy.

  'No talking,' said one of the guards.

  The boy opposite shrugged. He looked out of the window. Even sitting down, Jimmy could see that he was quite small, but broad shouldered and tough looking. 'I definitely know you,' Jimmy persisted.

  'Quiet,' said the guard.

  Jimmy glanced back at him. 'Sorry,' he said.

  'That means no talking!'

  'OK,' said Jimmy. 'Get the message.'

  The guard moved his rifle from one shoulder to the other.

  Jimmy made a zipping motion across his mouth. 'Not a peep,' he said.

  The guard took a step forward. His comrade put a restraining hand on his arm. The first guard glared across, then jabbed a warning finger at Jimmy. 'Later,' he said.

  Jimmy shrugged. He knew he was being thick. But he tended to say stupid things when he was nervous or confused. He didn't understand what was going on here. He was on the President's train. But it didn't feel right. He didn't like these boys with guns. He didn't like being manhandled. He didn't like being told to be quiet. And he didn't like the boy in the opposite seat. Their eyes met. The boy raised his hands and made a kind of rectangle shape, pointing at Jimmy. He raised one of his fingers, then moved it down quickly. As he did he made a clicking sound. And smirked.

  Claire's camera! The thief!

  Without even thinking about it, Jimmy threw himself across the aisle and upon the boy. He grabbed him by the throat and received a punch in the mouth for his trouble. They wrestled each other on to the carriage floor.

  The guards thundered down the aisle screaming at them to stop just as Jimmy managed to get on top and smash his fist into the boy's nose. 'You stole her camera you little mugger!' Jimmy yelled. He aimed another punch. The boy rolled his head to one side, avoiding contact.

  Jimmy was grabbed from behind and dragged off.

  Blood rolled down the boy's face. 'It was only a camera!' he shouted. 'There's thousands of them lying around!'

  'Because of you she's—'

  He never finished saying it. Mohican had suddenly reappeared and grabbed him by the throat. He walked Jimmy backwards until he was pressed hard against the divider between the seats.

  'Cut it out — now!' Mohican snapped.

  Despite the fact that he could hardly breathe, Jimmy strained against him. 'He stole . . .' he whispered, his eyes bulging. 'He . . .'

  'NOW!'

  Jimmy, lacking oxygen, finally nodded.

  Mohican relaxed his grip. 'Right. Now follow me, you little creep. The President wants to see you.'

  Mohican let go of him, turned and marched away along the aisle. Jimmy glared across at his enemy, sitting defenceless once again. Renew the attack or meet the President of the United States?

  He had no choice, really.

  11

  The President Himself

  Jimmy was led towards the front of the train. Although every carriage still had its share of armed men, a lot of space was also taken up with boxes of supplies. It reminded him of the Titanic — its corridors were often crammed with goods salvaged from abandoned warehouses or bartered at one of the settlements.

  Mohican stopped before entering the next carriage and gave Jimmy a hard look. 'It's the President,' he snapped, 'tidy yourself up. Be respectful.'

  Jimmy was on the verge of saying, 'He's not my President, I'm Irish,' but he thought better of it. If it meant getting into the Promised Land, then what harm could it do? He smoothed down his hair, straightened out his T-shirt, and rubbed as much of the grime and blood off his cheek as he could manage. When he'd finished Mohican gave him a quick check, shook his head, then turned and knocked lightly on the door. Unlike the other carriages, there were curtains hung behind the glass for privacy.

  'Come,' said a voice from inside.

  Mohican opened the door, and indicated for Jimmy to enter. Jimmy brushed through the curtains. Mohican stayed where he was, pulling the door closed after him. It was just Jimmy and . . .

  Well, he wasn't quite sure at first. The carriage was gloomy, thanks to the curtains hanging on every window. Directly ahead of him was a desk, with a leather swivel chair facing away from him, so he couldn't see its occupant. A reading lamp threw a weak light on to the top of the desk, and he could see files of paper spread out and a man's hand busily writing.

  Jimmy stood where he was, close to the door. He cleared his throat lightly.

  If my mum could see this — just me and the President!

  He suddenly felt quite emotional. He hadn't thought of his mum in such a long time. He had no idea if she was dead or alive.

  'Name?'

  The President still hadn't turned to face him.

  'Jimmy. James. Jimmy Armstrong.'

  He could hear a little quiver in his own voice.

  'Jimmy Armstrong,' the President repeated. 'Where are you from, Jimmy?'

  'Ahm . . . Ireland, I suppose.'

  'You're a long way from home.'

  'Yes, sir, Mr President.'

  'How come?' The President continued to write.

  'I . . . uhm . . . stowed away on a ship.'

  'That was very . . . enterprising of you.'

  'Not really, Mr . . . uhm, President. I, uh, did it by accident.'

  A low chuckle came from the man in the chair, which now began to revolve towards him.

  Jimmy gulped. Just me and the . . .

  Jimmy had seen the President on TV. He was in his late forties, he was tall and thin. But this President was an old man. In fact, now that he looked at him properly, he was the old man, the old guy Jimmy had listened to on the makeshift stage in the bar back at Tucker's Hole. The old man who'd told a mesmerised audience about the President's train and how won
derful it was. Except, he didn't look so old any more — there was nothing decrepit or stooped about him. In fact, he positively glowed with health. But he was still definitely the old man from Tucker's Hole.

  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.