Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #226 Read online

  "Do you fancy yourself a martyr, Mr Kellman?"

  I smile again. “Just trying to do my bit, like a good colonial."

  "Six scouting sessions, three clean-up, and five more salvage. You've done a lot more than your bit.” She taps her nail on the desk. It goes tick, tick, tick, like a clock or a bomb counting down. “That's four times the recommended volunteer service hours, and more than twice the limit set by health and safety regs."

  "I've already signed the forms,” I say, “absolving your government of any responsibility."

  "So you've satisfied them. That doesn't mean you've satisfied me.” She tilts her head, looks at me over her glasses. “How are you feeling, Mr Kellman?"

  I know I can't fool her. Even in the bulky clothes and ballcap, I look frail and anaemic. A half-man. A scarecrow. “I've been better,” I admit.

  "No hair loss? No weakness? No blood in your stool?"

  I clasp my hands on the desk in front of me, lower my eyes.

  "Even taking precautions,” she says, “an average volunteer absorbs at least a few rems per session. Continued exposure increases the risk of latent effects: cancer, sterility, genetic damage—“

  "I know all this, doctor.” I pause, tell myself to keep calm. “I took a healthy dose of three hundred rems during the first wave of fallout. I've been living with the sickness for months. I figure a little more exposure isn't going to hurt me."

  Pin-drop silence. A frown.

  Then: “It's not going to help either."

  I nod, unphased. She checks my file on her monitor.

  "You didn't receive that much exposure living in Wales. Were you visiting here at the time of the blast?"

  "No.” I don't want to talk about this, but I have to give her something. “I tried to get to ground zero in the days following. I've been trying ever since.” I gesture at her computer. “See for yourself. Does that thing show you where I've volunteered so far?"

  She clicks her mouse once, twice. On-screen, a map of the city materializes, complete with little red dots marking my progress—all in a row like a line of harvester ants. The significance of that is not lost on her.

  "You've been working your way towards..."

  "This,” I say. “It's all been leading up to this. Afterwards, I'm finished."

  A pause. Then her fingers begin moving over the keyboard. Even before she says anything I know she's cleared me. Not that it would have made any difference.

  I would have found a way.

  * * * *

  This changing room reminds me of gym class. The faint linger of body odour. Cracked tiles and yellowing grout. A row of battered grey lockers. Various groups, clustered together, commenting and joking with each other. Men and women change separately; each volunteer is issued with what they call ‘inner protection'. As far as I can tell, it's simply a set of long underwear. I take mine to the far end, around the corner. Here there is a little alcove, with a toilet cubicle and sink, where I can change without being stared at.

  The only problem is the mirror.

  You would not recognize me, now. I do not recognize myself. As I struggle out of my jeans and hoody, I find it impossible not to look at my naked reflection. I have been losing weight for months, and my skeleton seems to be pressing through my skin. Ribs and hips. Collar bones and pelvis. Not an ounce of fat on me. Not much muscle, either. I shiver as I step into my underwear, zip it up, and grin at myself. I still have my lips. You always liked my lips. But my teeth have yellowed, my gums receded. And my hair has grown thin and limp as an old man's. Apparently it will get worse before it gets better. If it gets better.

  To think that I used to worry about going bald.

  Footsteps, and then somebody is beside me. A tall, muscular Asian. His underwear is undone to the waist; there are letters tattooed across his chest. In Arabic, maybe? Or Farsi? He has a thick beard and an electric razor in his hand. We blink at each other, surprised. Then I step aside. I go into the toilet cubicle and sit, listening to the buzz of his shaver. When I come out, his beard has been reduced to stubble, and there is a pile of black hair in the sink. I don't know whether it's a symbolic gesture, or a practical one, and I don't really care.

  "Can I borrow that?” I ask.

  He offers it to me. I run it over my head once, twice. Feel the vibrations in my head, the guide firm and cool against my scalp. What remains of my hair falls lightly away, like dandelion fluff. As I give it back, the Asian holds up a hand. Wait. He takes the shaver and stands behind me. I feel it buzz across the back of my head, the nape of my neck.

  "You missed some,” he explains.

  * * * *

  The stares begin in the outer changing room.

  This is where the men and women converge, where everybody gathers to get into their ‘outer protection'. On my first shift, I naively expected some kind of radiation suit, complete with headgear and visor, but the reality is much more mundane. In the centre of the room stands a rack of jumpsuits that resemble white painter's coveralls more than anything else. That, along with yellow hardhats and some flimsy dust masks, are all the protection we need. Apparently. Whether that's the truth, or just what they're telling us, is anybody's guess.

  A pair of officials oversee the fittings; they measure people up, hand out clothing, offer instructions and advice. I already know the drill and select my own suit from the rack. A young man lets out a startled “Whoah” as I pass, and is quickly shushed by his girlfriend. Ignoring them, I begin to pull on my suit. Tottering for balance. Twenty-eight going on eighty-two. I can hear the pair of them whispering, arguing about something as they pretend not to stare at me. Eventually he musters up the courage to approach me.

  "Hey mate,” he says, then nervously licks his lips. Up close, I see he's only a few years younger than me. Blond hair. Greenish eyes. Strong and healthy. My doppelganger of long ago. He's careful not to stand too close—as if I might be contagious. “Sorry to be rude and all. But, have you volunteered before? Is that what messed you up?"

  My feeble attempt at laughter comes out as a wheeze, startling him. “I've done it before, but you don't have to worry about looking like this.” I glance past him to his girlfriend, who quickly lowers her eyes. This is probably something that you and I would have done—volunteering together like good little Samaritans. “The ash is what's dangerous—full of Strontium and Caesium. Don't get it near your nose or mouth, or on your skin. And be careful taking your suit off afterwards. But even if you went in stark naked you wouldn't develop acute symptoms like this. Not now. I got fucked by the initial fallout.” I grin at him. “Hell—if you believe the Hibs there's hardly any background radiation at all anymore."

  He nods, relieved. “Oh. Okay. Cheers, mate."

  He scuttles back to his girlfriend, leaving me to my seclusion. I finish zipping up, reach for a dust mask, a hardhat.

  The dressing room seems very quiet now.

  * * * *

  I do not find much funny these days, but I find this funny—and I think you would, too. Our armoured bus is packed with sweaty, nervous people. Half of them are squeezed shoulder to shoulder, barely able to breathe, but there's a free seat on either side of the Asian. Nobody wants to sit by him—as if he could have a nuke hidden underneath his protective suit. As if he might have returned to finish the job. As if any more damage could be done to this city.

  As if.

  We totter and sway like cattle as the bus rumbles over potholes and debris. The vibrations send spikes of pain up my spine, and set my skull ringing. I don't have the patience or stamina to stand; I squeeze over and slump into one of the spare seats next to him, near the front. Travelling in convoy is safer, so there are vehicles both ahead of and behind us. I figure we're about three miles from the epicentre, trundling east on the a3212, with the cloudy Thames on our right, and Ranelagh Gardens to the left. The hedges are scorched and leafless, the sloping lawns a monotonous brown. Unmoved, I watch the deadened landscape scroll by beneath a sky the colour of curdled c
ream.

  The Asian shifts in his seat, angles his head towards me.

  He asks, “You think that's all from the blast, or the fallout?"

  Good question, but not one I can answer. I shrug instead.

  Across from us, a burly brummie is talking to his buddy—in a way that is meant to draw attention to himself. I catch the terms ‘air burst’ and ‘surface burst', and realize he is explaining why the local fallout was much worse here than in Hiroshima.

  "Them Yanks detonated Little Boy half a mile up,” he says. “It burned clean. But surface bursts burn dirty, yeah? Kicks up a cloud, and all that radioactive shite fuses with them particles, then comes raining back down. That's why we got so fucked, like."

  His friend nods along, lapping it up. For a layman's explanation, it's pretty accurate. While those nearby listen in, he goes on to describe the most impressive part of the attack: how they managed to combine a suitcase nuke with a dirty bomb, destroying half the city and making the rest uninhabitable—chock full of radioactive nuclei that will remain hazardous for at least thirty years. Or so they say. Nobody really knows what to believe these days.

  At the front, the bus driver's radio crackles once and spits static. Then a voice comes on. It's barely audible. Nobody else bothers to listen, but I do. There is an ‘obstruction’ near Westminster, and another convoy has run into some ‘problems'. That's doublespeak for a roadblock, and an organized attack. The Resident People's Army, probably—or one of the other Hib groups. The bus driver reaches for his mouthpiece, thumbs the button on the side.

  "Roger that. What do you suggest, over?"

  "Suggest taking alternate route, via Victoria Station. Over."

  I look at the Asian. His face tells me that he, too, has overheard. “Hibs?” he says.

  I grunt. Just because half the city was deemed uninhabitable didn't stop people from wanting to live in it. The compulsory government evacuation was both chaotic and heavy-handed. Uncooperative residents got rounded up by force. There were riots, and more than a few deaths. Nobody really knows how many stayed behind, clinging to their old lives. But thanks to the government's ongoing efforts to clear them out, not all of them are friendly.

  * * * *

  We're coming into the city proper, now. On my first session, I envisioned the entire landscape as a blackened crater, a scorched and unrecognizable wasteland. Buildings flattened for miles around. Britain's version of Hiroshima. But most of the buildings in Japan were timber-frame structures. Those that didn't get blown down by the bomb were incinerated in the ensuing fireball. Brick and stone is more durable, less flammable. Here, outside the half mile radius of ground zero, the architecture has held up surprisingly well.

  Not that it's exactly untouched.

  In the cracked facades lining Regent Street, every single windowpane is empty—the glass shattered by the initial shockwave. A carpet of soot and ash coats the sidewalks, the gutters. Some of the buildings have burned, leaving framework like fried pieces of Meccano. It almost looks like a war zone, but even in a war zone there would be signs of life. It is more like entering the ruin of an ancient civilization. Fossilized in cinder. Pavement cracked and buckling. Lamp posts sagging like melted candles. Slag heaps of cars. An unreality.

  Then, rounding a corner, we are confronted with the truth. The brummie gasps. I don't know what he's seen. The hollow, burnt face of Big Ben? Nelson's melted statue, rising like a swamp-creature from the bronze ooze of its base? The broken columns of the National Gallery? Maybe all of those. The woman across from me is moved to tears, but I can't bring myself to feel anything. When it came to London, I always took my cue from you—and you never liked this city much. You studied here out of necessity, but preferred painting the lonely hilltops and desolate seasides of Wales. I think you would appreciate it more, now. Part of me does. I want to explore it with you, wander around these ruins like we did in Pompeii. It was spring and overcast; there were hardly any other tourists. We owned that place, ruled it as king and queen.

  Two of the buses turn off here, to different destinations. We, the last, head further towards the epicentre. The brummie clears his throat, nudges his friend. “Musta took bloody ages to clear this route."

  "Aye. Weeks."

  I nod to myself. Three, actually. I did six shifts in that time. Working my way towards this. Towards you.

  * * * *

  I catch a glimpse of the wrought iron-fence, mangled by heat and the concussion blast. Then the south courtyard is coming into view, and the museum itself. A blackened fortress. Sturdy and sprawling. Looking all the more impressive for the damage sustained by nearby buildings. Here, about two miles from ground zero, the general destruction is more apparent: roofs caved-in, walls collapsed, entire structures reduced to rubble. Our bus lurches to a halt in front of the south gate, on Great Russell Street, next to the remains of a Starbucks and a derelict pub. The metal plaque above the door still reads selling real ales since 1868.

  Our team leader—a tall, spindly woman with a nasal voice—stands up at the front, and tells us to check our dust masks before getting off the bus. Next we file out one by one, like spacemen stepping onto an alien planet. The driver opens the luggage compartment, hands out flashlights, salvage sacks, and item tags. Last comes the escort charged with our protection: a full squad of soldiers in grey camouflage. They shepherd us across the courtyard, then instruct us to wait on the steps while they secure the area. Most of the newbies huddle together, glancing at the surrounding terrain as if every object might hide swarms of Hibs intent on taking hostages. Apparently they're using people as bargaining chips now, to push for their right to abode. I sit with my back against one of the massive columns lining the facade—the base as wide around as the Redwoods you and I visited in California. Each breath pushes my dust mask out, and in, and out—like a pulsing gill.

  As soon as we're given the all clear, the team leader divides us into groups. I'm put with the brummies and my Asian friend—who turns out to be our section guide. That figures. He's got the jaded look of somebody who's done this before.

  "I'm Riaz,” he tells us. “The one you listen to. The one with the radio.” He holds it up in demonstration. “The main thing is to stick together. Don't wander off. That's for your own safety. We'll be working in rooms 68 and 70..."

  This is all routine. Normally I wouldn't pay attention—just follow orders and accept my penance. But today's different. I listen carefully, not only to Riaz but to the other section guides, making a mental note regarding their locations. For the most part, it seems like our efforts will be concentrated on level 3, in rooms overlooking the Great Court. It's not the best-case scenario, but it could be worse. The trick will be in trying to slip away unnoticed.

  "Bring your group back here in four hours,” our team leader tells Riaz and the other guides, just before we disperse. “If anything comes up, raise me on the radio."

  Aside from a guide, each section is assigned a squaddie. Ours is a weary youth who looks like he's nursing a modest hangover. He brings up the rear, yawning and cradling his assault rifle as we mount the wide stone steps. The front doors were destroyed, of course. A clean-up crew has already cleared a path for us, removing the frame and other obstructions. Inside, people turn on their flashlights. Pale circles flit like sprites across the walls, revealing the strangeness of scorched stone. A fine carpet of grey ash covers the marble floor, the welcome desk, the carved Roman busts that stand sentry in the four corners of the foyer. It reminds me of dirty snow back home. Winter has fallen on the British empire.

  "Just a minute,” Riaz tells us.

  We wait while he gets out his map, studies it by flashlight.

  "Room 68 is up here,” I say, pointing to the south stairs.

  He looks at me, curious, then nods—and I immediately regret drawing attention to myself. I keep my head down as we plod up the staircase, our footsteps muffled by ash.

  Riaz falls in step beside me.

  "You know your way around
the place,” he says.

  I grunt. Noncommittal. The last thing I need right now is a friend.

  * * * *

  At the top of the stairs we can see again, thanks to a series of collapsed skylights. The other volunteer groups continue further on, but the rooms we've been assigned are near the landing, which is lucky. At one time they contained displays on Greek and Roman life. Now it's hard to tell what they contain. Shattered glass. Rubble. The remnants of artefacts. I spot a bronze spear tip poking out from amidst the ash.

  While the squaddie takes up position near the door, Riaz gathers us in a huddle, briefs us on our task. “We're here to salvage what we can,” he says, in a well-rehearsed and rational tone. “Let's make sure we don't do more damage in the process. If you find anything of value, tag and bag it. Some items will be too heavy, delicate, or unwieldy. Mark those on your maps for expert removal. If you're unsure about anything, just ask me."

  In reality, most of the delicate material has been destroyed—either by the heat or the concussion blast that followed. Parchment and tapestries simply vaporised. Pottery and ceramics didn't fare much better. The first display case I examine—shattered like all the others—has a nameplate that reads: grecian urn. I spend a quarter of an hour sorting through ash and soot, picking out pottery fragments, which I dutifully bag, label, and place in my sack. It's simple, mindless work, which gives me plenty of time to plan my route. The east wing is out—apparently it's partially collapsed—and the Great Court is too exposed. That leaves the west stairs. I could walk directly to them from here, if the intervening rooms weren't filled with volunteers. As things stand, I'll have to try the lower levels.

  Pretending to scour the floor for remnant shards, I creep towards the edge of the room, then glance around. Right now Riaz is in the next gallery, examining a brass shield with the brummies—probably trying to decide if it can be removed, or if it should be noted as a ‘heavy object’ and left for later pick-up. Our squaddie is standing with his back to us, watching the entrance. Nobody seems to be paying me any attention. Still maintaining my charade of industrious worker, I casually wander through the archway into the adjacent corridor, then cut to the right and hurry back the way we came.