He understood now. “You were going to try and blackmail the South African government into setting your parents free.”
“Yes.”
“But it would have meant modifying Jane’s mutating agent to the point where it was safe. That would have been very risky, and complicated.”
He felt her shrug in his arms. “I was going to worry about that later. The main priority was to make sure your wife’s secret wasn’t lost. So I maneuvered myself into a position where I was indispensable to the mission.”
He considered what she’d told him. “You
“Maybe not, but I had to try. Now I rather wish I hadn’t. I’m not as strong as I thought I was. I don’t want to die but I don’t want to end up like all those other creatures.”
He squeezed her. “Don’t think about it. Not now.”
But she continued, “Will you do me a favor?”
“Anything.”
“If you survive all this, will you try to contact my parents and tell them about me?”
“Of course, if I survive. But I don’t think much of my chances.”
“No,” she said seriously, “I’m certain you will get out of this uninfected. Your wife was right. One of us was naturally immune, but it wasn’t me.”
“I’ve just been lucky so far.”
“No. It’s probably genetic. Your son was immune, before your wife—” She paused. “I’m sorry.”
He felt her lips brush his. “Promise me you’ll do what I asked?” she whispered.
“Yes, I promise,” he said and meant it. And he’d do his best to get her parents out of prison as well. As the man who—hopefully—helped save the world, he would be entitled to some rewards.
They made love again. More slowly this time, and with genuine affection. Then he fell asleep.
When he woke up bright daylight flooded the room and Kimberley was gone.
He knew in his heart it was a waste of time, but he searched for her anyway. He couldn’t find her until he went out onto the roof and looked down. Far below, lying on yellow fungus that coated the sidewalk was a small splotch of bright orange.
His eyes stung as the hot tears filled them. Then he went back down to the control room.
Carter was asleep. The equipment didn’t appear to be functioning. Wilson gently shook Carter awake and asked him what the situation was.
“I kept it going for over six hours,” wheezed Carter, “but then some mold got into the works. We can only hope someone heard—” He looked around. “Where’s the lady?”
“Kimberley’s gone,” said Wilson.
“I see,” said Carter, his heavy head tilting forward.
The days passed monotonously. When Wilson wasn’t scavenging for food and drink, he spent the time sitting on the roof of the Euston Tower with Carter. They were waiting for something to happen—a sign of some kind—though they didn’t know what.
Carter didn’t talk much anymore. He was finding it difficult to breathe due to the weight of the crust on his head, neck and chest.
During one of their last conversations Wilson said, “Christ, I could do with a cigarette.”
“Bad for your lungs,” wheezed Carter, and made his laughing sound. Then he said, “Me—I’d like to read a book. Anything at all. Even a Flannery novel.”
Wilson laughed too.
On the eighth day they got their sign. It was near sunset and they were sitting in their customary place on the roof. Suddenly an RAF jet flew overhead with a thunderous roar. It circled low over the area, rocked its wings, and then disappeared to the north.
“You think that was an acknowledgment of our message?” Wilson asked eagerly.
“Had to be,” wheezed Carter. “No other way they’d know we were here.”
The next morning, Carter was dead. He’d suffocated in his sleep.
Wilson left him where he lay and by evening the fungus had consumed him completely. The bright orange stain on the sidewalk far below had long disappeared.
Every morning and night Wilson checked himself for the fungus, but he remained uninfected. Kimberley had been right, it seemed. He was immune. Not that it really seemed to matter any more.
A week or so after Carter’s death he was sitting on the roof one late afternoon, drinking a bottle of wine he’d found, and staring vacantly out over the fungus-covered vista, when he heard a loud rumbling sound. He looked and saw the Post Office Tower starting to topple over. It fell toward Tottenham Court Road in slow motion, and when it hit the ground, after smashing through the brittle shells of the smaller buildings beneath it, the impact made the Euston Tower shake.
Wilson guessed that the fungus had finally eaten through the concrete base of the Post Office structure. He was glad it had collapsed. Every time he looked at it he remembered what its bulbous summit had contained. the horrors of Jane’s laboratory. his son’s eyes staring out of that cabinet.
For some reason he interpreted the destruction of the tower as an even more positive sign than the RAF jet’s appearance.
All of a sudden he knew for certain that the battle would be won and the fungus would be destroyed.
He drank the rest of the wine and flung the bottle high into the air.
