the figures on the road move to either side as I drive toward them. It’s less than half a mile to the gate. A couple of minutes and we’ll be out of here. I swerve around a fight that spills out of a building, and when I look back in my mirror I see that Jake has his face pressed against the glass.
“Get your fucking head down!” I scream at him. He does as I say, but it’s too late, he’s been seen. Perhaps because no one’s able to process the bizarre reality of the appearance of an Unchanged child in the middle of the crumbling chaos of Lowestoft, there’s the slightest delay before I’m aware of any real reaction. But then, when I brake hard to avoid a collision with some kind of armored truck coming the other way, a horde of people begin throwing themselves at the sides of the van. The engine almost dies, and they hammer against the glass and try to grab at the doors. The children sink down and cover their heads in terror, and I accelerate again, barely managing to keep the van on the road.
I follow the bend in the road around to the left, and I can see the bridge ahead of me now. The gates are open, but there’s still a heavy military presence here. Ankin’s troops are blocking the way in and out of town, doing all they can to keep the trouble contained. I can already see several of them moving toward me, weapons raised.
“Stay down!” I yell again at the kids. I jam my foot down on the accelerator pedal, sink back into my seat, and grip the steering wheel tight as we race toward the blockade. Over the top of the dashboard I see sudden, frantic movement as we hurtle toward the troops and they dive away in either direction as I smash through them. Shots ring out and bullets thud into the side of the van. The back windows shatter, showering Jake and Chloe with glass.
“Who’s shooting?” Jake asks. He crawls along the length of the van, then gets up and hangs over the seat next to me, blocking my view behind.
“Get out of the way,” I yell at him, trying to push him away and still keep control. He fights to stay where he is, but I manage to shove him hard out of the way, and in the suddenly clear rearview mirror I see headlights behind us. The fuckers are following.
“Someone’s coming,” Chloe wails, looking out through a bullet hole. “I can see motorbikes.”
I look up again. There are two bikes and a jeep in pursuit now. We’re on the A12, and although littered with debris, the road is virtually clear of other traffic. Sticking to the main road is the safest option. If I try to find an alternative route I could end up driving down a road that’s blocked or doubling back and going the wrong way. I need to keep going until we reach Wrentham. Once we’re there I’ll know we’re not far from the bunker. Just got to keep moving …
The miles flash past quickly, the road straight and uninterrupted. Our pursuers are gaining fast, but that’s inevitable given the dilapidated state of this van. Being caught is an obvious concern, but I know I have an even bigger problem to deal with. Assuming we make it to the bunker, how do we get in without leading Ankin’s soldiers straight to it?
“Are we nearly there?” Chloe shouts at me from the back of the van, her innocent comment striking an immediately familiar chord. I instinctively react like I always used to.
“We’ll get there when we get there.”
“They’re coming,” Jake says. “Drive faster.”
“I can’t.”
One of the bikes accelerates, and within a few seconds it’s up alongside us. I try to ram it off the road, but the driver anticipates my clumsy maneuver and drops back out of the way, and it’s me that almost loses control. I clip the curb, then steer hard and overcompensate, caught out by the camber of the road and almost hitting the curb on the other side. The second bike passes us now, squeezing through the gap, and I’m starting to wish I’d stayed hidden in Rona Scott’s office and never bothered trying to get out.
Wrentham. We enter the village at speed, sandwiched between the bikes, with the jeep gaining steadily. Now the dumb bastard on the bike ahead of me is regretting being in front. He looks back over his shoulder, trying to work out which way I’m going to go as we race toward the crossroads, then chooses the wrong option and continues toward Southwold. I steer right to take the road that leads to the bunker, and I shove my foot down hard on the accelerator pedal again to get to maximum speed and take advantage of this moment of clear road ahead. The van’s struggling to keep going, and it’s just a matter of seconds before both of the bikes are swarming around the back again. Fortunately the road here narrows slightly, and I weave from side to side. There’s no way either of them is getting past.
I catch a glimpse of something through the bare-branched trees. It’s gone again in a heartbeat, and I think I must have been mistaken, but then there’s another gap in the hedgerow and I look across and see the remains of the battlefield I remember seeing when Sutton brought me out here.
We’re close now. Very close.
Wait. This must be it. I’m sure I can see the outline of the farm buildings in the near distance up ahead. I swerve hard to block one of the bikes from trying to pass again, and Chloe screams with pain as she’s thrown across the back of the van and hits the side of her head against the metal cage. Her piercing scream cuts right through me, but it helps me focus, too. It’s like when Ellis and Josh used to fight in the backseat of my car.
“Hold on,” I tell them both, as much for my benefit as theirs, quickly checking over my shoulder that they’re both braced for impact. I let one of the bikes slip past, then slam on the brakes. The first rider races ahead, at first not even noticing I’ve stopped. The second driver pulls up hard to avoid a collision and loses balance, the bike kicking out from under him. I accelerate again, but the engine doesn’t react. It threatens to stall, and I will it to keep ticking over. Our speed finally begins to increase, and I steer hard right through the open gateway into the dilapidated farm, a few precious seconds of space behind us.
The well-worn wheels of the van struggle to get a grip on the mud- and ice-covered track. The back end swings out violently as I turn, and I feel it smack against one of the gateposts, but I manage to keep control and keep my speed up, trying to remember the exact layout of the farm as I career toward the collection of dark, empty buildings, desperate to get out of sight before any of our pursuers catch up. Directly ahead now is the derelict cowshed where Peter Sutton left his car when he brought me here. I look back and see the jeep just turning into the farm. I drive into the shed, then slam on the brakes and kill the engine.
“Keep your damn heads down,” I yell at the kids again, hoping I’ve done enough to keep us hidden. I can hear the jeep approaching. “Don’t move a muscle! If they see either of you, we’ve all had it.”
I sink down into my seat and watch in the mirrors, completely still, moving only my eyes. Within a few seconds the jeep appears in the muddy yard behind us and skids to an abrupt halt. Moments later the two bikes arrive. With the bike riders, at least one other soldier in the jeep, probably more … the odds aren’t looking good. I could try to take them by surprise, start the engine again, drive away and hope to get enough of a head start on them, then hide out and come back here later, but what’s that going to achieve? I’m low on fuel, and the bunker is the only place I can take these kids.
“Head hurts,” Chloe whimpers.
“Shut up,” I hiss at her. “They’ll hear you.”
Jake reaches across and covers her mouth with his hand. In the middle of the yard behind us, two more of Ankin’s soldiers get out of the back of the jeep, then split up, the driver ordering them away in different directions. Along with the two motorcyclists they fan out across the farm, and I watch in the rearview mirror as one of them starts walking directly toward the cowshed, no doubt following the fresh tracks we’ve left in the mud and ice. Moving as little as possible, I reach across to the passenger seat and grab the metal cutters I brought with me from the factory.
I can hear the soldier approaching, boots crunching louder with every advancing step. It’s a woman, her face smeared with the grime of battle, and she’s carrying a pistol. She peers into the shed, then edges into the darkness cautiously, not about to take any chances. She moves slowly, inching ever closer to the back of this still-warm bullet-riddled wreck of a van. For a fraction of a second our eyes seem to meet in the rearview mirror, but I don’t think she’s yet sure what she saw. She takes another step forward, then stops and spins around on the spot. The silence is interrupted by a single gunshot. The back of her skull explodes out over the back of the van and I hear her dead body slam against the vehicle before she drops to the ground. I can’t see anything, but I guess there’s someone standing on the other side of the farm with a rifle. There’s a second shot—I can’t see if it hits anyone— then there’s a third, and I’m pretty sure that one’s from another direction entirely. I’m trying to work out what’s going on from my pitifully small viewpoint while still keeping low in the driver’s seat; I don’t want any of Sutton’s people taking me out before they realize who I am and what—who—I’ve brought them.
