It reached the tarmac just a few metres before the sign that welcomed visitors to Montauk. The road seethed. A truck was reversing out of a driveway. Hooper felt the Harley skid. He tried to dodge the vehicle, but the motorbike was out of control.
Oh, no, he thought. Oh, please, God, no.
The truck rolled across the road, with the Harley skidding towards it. Hooper heard Linda scream, and wrenched the bike round. They slid past the front of the truck, missing the chrome-plated metal by a hair The Harley was still turning but Hooper steadied it. People were jumping out of their path. He took no notice. The road ahead was clear.
At full tilt they headed for Southampton.
Buckley Field, USA
‘What the hell’s going on down there?’
Cody’s fingers sped over the keyboard. He tried viewing the images with different filters, but all they could see was a light-coloured mass spilling inland from the ocean.
‘It looks like a wave,’ he said. ‘Like a fucking big wave.’
‘But there wasn’t a wave,’ said Mike. ‘It’s got to be animals.’
‘What kind of fucking animals?’
‘They’re…’ Mike stared at the monitor. He pointed. ‘Look, right there! Zoom in on that. Cut it down to a square metre.’
Cody selected the area and zoomed in. The screen was filled with a mixture of light and dark pixels.
‘Closer.’
The pixels expanded, some white, others in varying shades of grey.
‘OK, maybe I’m going crazy,’ said Mike slowly, ‘but to me they look like…’ How could it be possible? ‘Pincers,’ he said. ‘Pincers and shells.’
Cody stared at him. ‘Pincers?’
‘Crabs.’
Cody’s jaw fell open. He typed in a command for the satellite to search the coastline.
The KH-12-4 worked its way from Montauk to East Hampton and from there to Southampton, Mastic Beach and Patchogue.
‘This can’t be happening,’ Mike said.
‘Can’t it?’ Cody turned around. ‘Well, it fucking is. Something’s coming out of the sea down there - along the whole damn coastline of Long Island. Do you still want to visit Montauk?’
Mike picked up the phone to call HQ.
Greater New York, USA
Just past the exit for Montauk, Route 27 joined the Long Island Expressway 495. It led all the way to Queens. It was about 200 kilometres from Montauk to New York, and the closer you drove to the metropolis, the busier it became. Roughly half-way there, near Patchogue, there’d be a surge of extra traffic.
Bo Henson was a deliveryman in his own private courier business. He made the round trip to Long Island twice a day. He’d been to Patchogue to pick up a parcel from the airport and drop it off nearby. Now he was on his way back to the city. He’d had a long day already - but it was no use griping about the hours when you were up against the big boys, like FedEx. Soon he’d be able to relax, though. He’d finished all his deliveries and was clocking off earlier than he’d expected. He was worn out and longing for a beer.
Near Amityville, roughly forty kilometres from Queens, the car in front skidded.
Henson hit the brakes. The car ahead straightened out and slowed right down. Its hazard warning lights flashed on. Something was coating the road. The light was fading, and Henson couldn’t see what it was, only that it was moving, and that it seemed to be coming from the bushes on the left. Then he saw that it was crabs. The highway was swarming with them. They were trying to cross the road and didn’t stand a chance - the tracks of slime and shattered shell were evidence of the casualties so far.
The traffic crept forwards. It was like driving on soap. Henson swore. He wondered where the creatures could have come from. He’d read in the paper about land-crabs on Christmas Island migrating from the mountains to the sea to spawn. Every year 100 million of them set off en masse. But Christmas Island was in the Indian Ocean, and the crabs in the photo had been huge and bright red, not a seething mass of white.
Henson had never seen anything like it.
He cursed again, and switched on the radio. After a while he hit on a country music station and resigned himself to his fate. Dolly Parton did her best to reconcile him to the situation, but nothing could salvage his mood. Ten minutes later, the news came on, but made no mention of the crab plague. A snowplough had appeared, though, and was pushing its way between the crawling traffic, trying to sweep the milling bodies from the road. The effect was to jam things up entirely. Henson switched between all the local radio stations, but none had anything to say about it, which riled him even more: he was suffering and no one cared. Meanwhile, the air-conditioning was blowing an unwholesome stench into his van and he was forced to turn it off.
On the other side of the crossroads leading left to Hempstead and right to Long Beach, the traffic picked up speed. The creatures hadn’t made it that far. Henson kept his foot on the gas and reached Queens an hour later than he’d hoped. He was in a foul temper. Just before he got to the East River he turned left and crossed Newton Creek on the way to his regular drinking-hole in Brooklyn-Greenpoint. He parked, got out and almost had a heart-attack when he saw the state of his van. A mush of crab plastered the tyres, the hubcaps and the paintwork, reaching all the way up to the windows. He had to be on the road first thing the next morning and couldn’t deliver any parcels like that.
It was late, but the beer could wait until he’d taken the van to the twenty-four-hour carwash. He climbed back in, drove the three blocks, and told the guys to pay special attention to the alloys: he didn’t want a speck of filth left on his van. Then he told them where they could find him, and walked back to the bar for his beer.
The carwash had a reputation for doing a thorough, conscientious job. The slimy gunk on Henson’s van was hard to get off, but after prolonged exposure to the jet of hot water, it melted off - like Jell-O in the sun, thought the boy in charge of the pressure-washer.
The effluent poured into the drains.
New York had a unique water-supply system. While cars and trains passed beneath the East River at a depth of thirty metres, pipes carrying drinking water and sewage extended 240 metres underground. Engineers with powerful drills were always boring new tunnels to ensure that water flowed freely into and out of the city. Alongside the existing pipes, countless old tunnels were no longer in use. Experts claimed that no one could locate all of the tunnels buried below the streets of New York. There wasn’t a single map that showed the entire network. Some tunnels were known only to certain groups of drifters, who kept the secret to themselves. The sewers had inspired directors to make monster movies in which scary creatures were hatched in them. In a sense, everything that flowed into New York’s sewers went astray.
In the course of that evening and over the next few days, the carwashes in Brooklyn, Queens, State Island and Manhattan were filled with vehicles that had come from Long Island. The wastewater disappeared into the bowels of the city, flowing along pipelines, mingling with other fluids and entering the recycling stations. Then it was pumped back into the system. Only a few hours after Henson’s squeaky-clean van had been dropped off at the bar, the effluent had merged with New York’s water.
Within six hours the first ambulances were racing through the streets.
11 May
Chateau Whistler, Canada
There was always a way of coming to terms with change. Or, at least, Johanson had always found one. Much as it had hurt him to lose his house, he knew he could live without it. Even the end of his marriage had been a new beginning. In Trondheim, his short-lived relationships had compounded his solitude - but none of it had bothered him. As far as he was concerned, anything that didn’t add to his aesthetic sensibilities or his appreciation of harmony could be consigned to the dustbin. The surface was something he shared with others but the depths he kept for himself. That was his way of getting on with life.
Now, though, in the early hours of the morning, other, more dissonant memories were emerging from th
e past. He hadn’t intended to open his left eye, but now that he had, he examined the world from a cyclopean view, thinking about those in his life who’d been destroyed by change.
His wife.
People grew up thinking that they controlled their lives. But he’d abandoned her, and she’d been forced to see that control was an illusion. She’d argued with him, pleaded with him, shouted, shown compassion, listened patiently, begged for his pity, and been left behind, disenfranchised, bundled out of their shared life. She’d stopped believing in her power to change anything. Life was a gamble, and she’d lost.
Was it his fault that he’d suddenly felt differently? Emotions were beyond innocence and guilt: they were biochemical reactions to the circumstances of life. It wasn’t very romantic, he knew, but endorphins meant more than any romance. So what was he guilty of? Of making promises that couldn’t be kept…
Johanson opened the other eye.
Change, for him, was the elixir of life. For her it had induced a kind of coma. Years later, when he was in Trondheim, friends had told him that she’d finally got back on her feet, taken charge of her life. After a while she’d found someone new. Johanson and she had chatted on the phone a few times, free from rancour or longing. The bitterness had destroyed itself, and he’d been released from the burden of guilt.
But now it was back.
It followed him around, with Tina Lund’s pale, pretty face. By now he had been through all the different scenarios. If they’d slept together at the lake, it would have changed everything. Maybe she would have joined him in the Shetlands. Or maybe it would have ruined everything, and he would have been the last person whose advice she would have taken - like when he’d encouraged her to visit Kare. Either way, she would still be alive.
He kept telling himself it was stupid to think like that.
But the thoughts kept returning.
The first rays of sunshine streamed into the room. He had left the curtains open as he always did: a bedroom with closed curtains was no better than a crypt. He wondered about getting up for breakfast, but he had no desire to move. Lund’s death filled him with sorrow. He hadn’t been in love with her, but he had loved her. Her restlessness, her need for freedom had drawn them together, as surely as they had kept them apart.
I won’t live for ever, he thought. Ever since Lund had died, he had thought about death. He wasn’t used to feeling old, but now it seemed as though Fate had stamped a best-before date on him. He was fifty-six, in excellent shape, and had escaped the statistical threat of untimely death through illness or accident. He’d even survived a tsunami. But there was no doubt that time was running out. Most of his life was in the past, and he was starting to worry that it might all have been a mistake.
Two women in his life had trusted him, and he’d failed to protect them.
Karen Weaver was alive. She reminded him of Lund. She wasn’t as hyperactive, as guarded or as moody, but she had Lund’s strength, her toughness and impatience. After their escape from the tsunami, he had told her his theory and she’d explained her work for Lukas Bauer. After a while he had flown back to Norway and joined the ranks of the homeless. But the NTNU was still standing. The authorities had besieged him with work, and before he could drive to the lake, the summons had arrived from Canada. It had been his idea for Weaver to join them, ostensibly because she knew more than anyone else about Bauer’s work and could take it further. But that wasn’t the real reason. If it hadn’t been for the helicopter, Weaver would’nt have survived - so, in a sense, he had saved her. Weaver was absolution for his failure to help Lund, and he’d made up his mind to look out for her. To that end, it was better to have her close.
The memories of the past faded in the sunlight. Johanson got up, showered and arrived at the buffet at half past six to find that he wasn’t the only one to have risen so early. The dining hall was filled with soldiers and intelligence agents drinking coffee, eating muesli and fruit and talking in hushed tones. Johanson piled his plate with scrambled eggs and bacon and searched for familiar faces. He would have liked to talk to Bohrmann, but he was nowhere to be seen. General Judith Li was there, though, sitting alone at a table for two. She was leafing through a file. From time to time she took a spoonful of fruit from her bowl.
Something about Li intrigued Johanson. He guessed that she looked younger than she was. He wondered what a man had to do to get her into bed, but decided it was probably unadvisable to try. Li didn’t look like someone who would let others take the initiative.
She glanced from her reading and spotted him. ‘Good morning, Dr Johanson,’ she called. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Like a baby.’ He walked over to her table. ‘You’re not breakfasting alone, are you? I guess it must be lonely at the top.’
‘Why don’t you join me? I like having people around me who are busy with their thoughts. It concentrates the mind.’
Johanson took a seat. ‘Who’s to say I am?’
‘It’s obvious.’ Li put down her file. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘You revealed yourself yesterday. The other scientists here are focused on their fields. Shankar’s contending with mysterious deep-sea noises, Anawak’s fretting about his whales - although he’s got more of an overview than the others - and Bohrmann’s terrified that there’s going to be a methane disaster. He’s juggling variables, trying to prevent another slide.’
‘Sounds like they’ve got their work cut out to me.’
‘But they haven’t come up with a theory to tie it all together.’
‘I didn’t think we needed one,’ Johanson said evenly. ‘It’s an Arab conspiracy.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘No.’
‘What do you believe, then?’
‘If you want to hear what I think, you’re going to have to wait an extra day or so.’
‘You haven’t convinced yourself yet?’
‘Almost.’ Johanson sipped his coffee. ‘But it’s tricky. Your Mr Vanderbilt is all fired up about terrorism. Before I even voice my suspicions, I’ll need someone to cover my back.’
‘And who’s going to do that?’
Johanson put down his cup. ‘You are, General.’
Li didn’t seen surprised. ‘If you’re going to try to convince me of something, maybe you should tell me what it is.’
‘Absolutely,’ smiled Johanson. ‘All in good time.’
Li pushed the file across the table. Inside the plastic wallet was a collection of faxes. ‘Maybe this will speed up your decision, Dr Johanson. I received these at five o’clock this morning. No one seems able to tell us exactly what happened, and we’re still awaiting a full report, but I had to make a quick decision. In a few hours’ time, New York and the surrounding area will be under martial law. Peak’s there already to set things in motion.’
Johanson saw the spectre of another wave. ‘But why?’
‘What if I told you that billions of white crabs were rising from the sea along the coast of Long Island?’
‘I’d say they were on a team-building exercise.’
‘Uh-huh. But for which team?’
‘Tell me more about these crabs,’ he said. ‘What are they doing there?’
‘We’re not sure. But we think it’s something similar to those Brittany lobsters. They’re importing a plague. How does that fit with your theory?’
Johanson thought it over. ‘Is there a biohazard facility where we could examine them?’
‘We’ve set one up in Nanaimo. A consignment of crabs is being sent there.’
‘Live ones?’
‘They were alive when they were caught. Plenty of people are dead, though. The poison seems to work faster than the toxins in Europe.’
Johanson said nothing for a while. ‘I’ll fly over,’ he said.
‘And when do you plan to tell me what you’re thinking?’
‘Give me twenty-four hours.’
Li pursed her lips. ‘Twenty-four hours i
t is,’ she said. ‘But not a minute longer.’
Nanaimo, Vancouver Island
Anawak was sitting with Ray Fenwick, John Ford and Sue Oliviera in the institute’s capacious projection room. The projector was showing 3-D models of whale brains. Oliviera had designed them on the computer, and had marked the places where the jelly had been found. You could navigate around the insides of the brains and slice them lengthways with a virtual knife. They’d already watched three simulations, and now they were viewing the fourth, which showed how the substance wound its way through the gyri towards the centre of the brain.
‘OK, here’s the theory,’ said Anawak. ‘Imagine you’re a cockroach.’
‘Gee, thanks, Leon.’ Oliviera raised her eyebrows, which made her horsy face seem even longer. ‘You know how to flatter a lady.’
‘A cockroach incapable of intelligent thought.’
‘I never knew you felt that way.’
Fenwick laughed and scratched the tip of his nose.
‘Everything you do is merely a reflex,’ Anawak continued, unabashed, ‘so if I were a neurophysiologist, I could steer your behaviour with no trouble at all. I’d only have to control your reflexes and trigger them as required. You’d be like an artificial limb. I’d just have to push the right buttons.’
‘Wasn’t there an experiment where they beheaded a beetle and sewed on another one’s head?’ said Ford. ‘If I remember rightly, it could walk.’
‘Almost. They decapitated one cockroach, and chopped the legs off another. Then they joined the central nervous systems. The cockroach with the head took control of the legs as though they were its own. That’s what I’m getting at: simple processes for simple creatures. There was another experiment where they tried something similar with mice. They took a mouse and grafted a second head on to its body. It lived a surprisingly long time - a few hours or days, I think. In any case, both heads seemed to function normally, but the mouse had trouble coordinating its movement. It was able to walk, but not always in the direction it intended, so it mostly fell over after a few steps.’