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other side of the barricade. They had seen the first of the bodies almost
immediately. They were everywhere; lying across the road; hanging half Out of
their bullet-riddled cars; huddled together in groups beside the road.
At first Slocock tried to avoid running over them. But it was impossible, so
he stopped trying. Wilson shuddered every time he felt the tires go over
something.
The bodies nearest the wire were all badly charred.
Flamethrowers, said Slocock. To kill the fungus. A flicking lot of good it
does.
But so far Wilson hadn t seen a sign of the fungus on any of the bodies they d
passed.
A half-mile past the barrier, they entered the dead zone, as Slocock called
it. It was a total wasteland in which nothing lived. Parts of it were
blackened and burned; other parts were covered in a strange white powder. At
one point they saw a plane flying low across the ground to their east, leaving
a trail of yellow dust behind it. Later they saw, in the distance, a jet
dropping napalm.
They passed several burned-out vehicles, their occupants charred husks with
rictus grins, their teeth showing white against their blackened flesh.
On these occasions Wilson was glad Kimberley wasn t sitting up front with
them. The motion of the truck made her feel even sicker and she d gone to lie
on one of the bunks even before they d reached the barrier.
Both men felt uneasy as they drove through the dead zone. They knew that the
Air Force had been informed of their crossing, but this was no guarantee that
some pilot might not decide to attack them, either for the sheer hell of it or
because he hadn t received the message about them.
Slocock pushed his foot down. But speed was dangerous on the battered road
surface, and there were several sections where the road disappeared
completely obliterated by massive bomb craters. Slocock was obliged to slow
down and drive off the road around them.
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Finally they saw green ahead of them and knew they were almost out of the
man-made wilderness.
On the other side of the zone they passed a large group of
disconsolate-looking people sitting beside a number of parked cars. They d
obviously decided not to risk trying to cross the zone, or perhaps had heard
from fleeing survivors what was waiting for them even if they got through.
Most of them just stared apathetically at the speeding Stalwart; a few looked
puzzled at the fact it was traveling in the wrong direction, and a few raised
their fists angrily at this symbol of the now-hated military. None of them,
Wilson saw, displayed any external sign of fungal infection.
When the road ahead seemed clear and undamaged, Slocock suggested, or rather
ordered, that Wilson take a turn behind the wheel.
Wilson drove for about 10 minutes and was almost beginning to enjoy himself,
absurd as that seemed in the circumstances.
Okay, that s enough, said Slocock suddenly. Pull up and I ll take over.
We re getting near
Kidderminster.
As Wilson crawled over Slocock, he decided to check on Kimberley. He was
tempted to go through the heavy hatch that separated the driver s cabin from
the rear compartment, but undoing the seals was a difficult business so he
flipped the intercom switch instead. Hi, Kimberley! How are you doing?
There was a long pause before she answered, rather irritably, I was asleep.
Oh. He glanced at Slocock and saw the expected sneer. Sorry. Are you
feeling any better?
No. Where are we?
He told her they were approaching Kidderminster. She said she was going back
to sleep and not to wake her unless something important happened. He switched
off the intercom with a sigh.
They rode on in silence for a while. Then Wilson pointed at the bottle of
whiskey resting upright against
Slocock s crotch like a glass phallus. Mind if I have a drink?
Piss off, said Slocock.
Wilson wondered if he was joking.
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Does that mean no?
Look mate, I ve only got another four bottles left.
That s plenty.
Not the way I drink. And who knows how long it s going to be before I get my
hands on any more. So
I m sure as hell not wasting any of it on you.
You don t like me very much, do you?
Slocock laughed. You intellectuals are real sharp. Yeah, you re right. I
don t like you. My job is to make sure you stay alive long enough to do your
job. After that, well, we ll see.
Wilson realized, with a mild shock, that Slocock was making some kind of
threat. And yet he was surprised to note that it didn t particularly disturb
him. There were too many other things to worry about.
Well, as Flannery would say in a situation like this, Up yours, boyo.
Slocock grunted. Who the flick s Flannery?
An old friend of mine.
Sounds like a real wit. But whoever he is he s too far away to do you any
good.
You re wrong there. He s closer than you think, said Wilson and smiled.
They made a wide detour around Kidderminster just to be safe even though the
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town appeared deserted.
Slocock sent the Stalwart off the road, through a fence and across the fields.
Wilson winced when the vehicle crushed the fence under its tires. Aren t you
afraid we might get a flat?
I noticed we re not carrying a spare.
They re puncture-proof. The tubes are honey-combed with lots of separate
cells inflated with nitrogen.
They got back on the A449 without any difficulty and were heading south toward
Worcester when they encountered a group of nine people coming along the road.
Five men, two women, and two young children. Wilson expected Slocock to speed
by them as he had the other group, but to his surprise the
Stalwart began to slow down.
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Why are you stopping?
Take a closer look at them.
As the truck came to a halt about
20
yards from the group Wilson saw what Slocock was talking about.
They were victims of the fungus.
Compared with Dr. Bruce Carter on the video they seemed scarcely affected, but
it was there nonetheless. They all appeared to be subject to a particularly
dark blue five o clock shadow. The women and children too. And the same blue
coloring was on their hands as well.
Wilson felt his flesh crawl.
The group had come to a halt and were staring silently at the vehicle. They
projected a sense of hopeless despair.
Can t we do anything at all for them? Wilson asked Slocock.
Yeah, we could shoot the poor bastards.
Wilson didn t take him seriously until he reached up and pulled down one of
the folding gun-control units from the ceiling of the cabin.
No! cried Wilson, grabbing his arm. Don t! Let them live!
Why? They re finished anyway. If they get through the dead zone they ll die
on Buxton s barrier. Be doing them a favor to put them out of their misery
right now.
And I say let them be! cried Wilson, his voice rising to a shout.
Slocock shrugged and said, Okay, don t get excited. He started the truck
moving again. Your trouble, mate, is that you re too squeamish. But you won t
be for long.
As Slocock drove past the group Wilson got a closer look at the blue mold
covering their faces and hands.
He avoided looking at their eyes.
They stood motionless as the truck went by. Not much more than two weeks ago,
Wilson realized, these had been normal, healthy people. But now, thanks to one
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