04 CRATE EXPECTATIONS
Jimmy hurried away from Waterloo Station. It hadn’t been hard for him to stay unnoticed by the commuters bustling their way to work. They kept their grim faces downcast unless they were squinting up at the departures board. Jimmy was more worried about keeping his face off the surveillance cameras. With facial recognition software, he’d be picked out of the crowd in seconds.
Fortunately, that also worked in his favour. It meant that nobody would be monitoring the camera feeds personally, and there was no software that knew to look out for a boy wandering through the streets alone.
On the train journey he’d managed to find out a little more vital information from a leaflet he’d found behind the snack bar. It was the train operator’s guidelines on emergency procedures, and it confirmed what he’d thought: the only major hospitals left in the country were in the big cities. It set out clearly that in the case of a significant incident at Waterloo, the nearest hospital with the facilities to cope was a place called St Thomas’.
Jimmy didn’t want to risk going anywhere else. If the other hospitals weren’t big enough or well enough funded to cope with more than a few casualties, there was no way they’d be any help with Jimmy’s radiation poisoning. He’d be putting himself in danger for nothing. No—he had one shot at going to a hospital so it had to work. It had to be St Thomas’.
Jimmy had only been to hospital once before, and he’d been too young to remember now which hospital it had been. He’d fallen in an adventure playground and his mum thought he’d broken his arm, so she’d taken him for an x-ray.
All Jimmy remembered was sitting in the waiting room for hours and hours, only to be told that he was fine. It was almost funny now to think of the way his body had developed. Since his powers had kicked in, it took a lot more than falling down to break his arm. All those cuts and bruises he’d suffered while he was growing up—those days were over. Jimmy knew that it was extreme danger that had awakened his programming early, but he wondered whether there was anything that could possibly make it go away again. He quickly told himself to put thoughts of the impossible out of his mind. His programming couldn’t be switched off. It was part of him.
Jimmy prowled through the streets towards the River Thames. He reckoned the streets were safer that the tunnels of the Underground system, and he’d memorised the map from the train leaflet to guide him to St Thomas’. But within minutes he saw that he had a problem. Armed policemen were blockading the roads and pavements.
Jimmy slipped into the doorway of a café to hide, feeling a surge of anger at himself. How could he have hoped to walk to the hospital? They’ve already set up a ring round the station, Jimmy realised. He’d been counting on it taking a little longer for NJ7 to work out he’d been on the train, not in the wreckage of the helicopter.
There was nothing for it but to turn round and walk back in the direction he’d come. Retracing his steps increased his chances of being recognised, so he chose a different route, while still making his way back towards Waterloo Station. All the time, he was racking his brains. If he couldn’t get to the hospital on foot, it was obvious NJ7 would have the Underground platforms monitored as well—that’s if the trains were running at all.
By now Jimmy was feeling like every thought had to fight its way through a veil of tiredness and hunger. He didn’t dare try to remember the last time he’d slept for more than a couple of hours at a time, and his stomach was aching for some kind of breakfast.
Very soon he was back in the network of road tunnels around Waterloo Station. If they’ve set up a ring, he thought to himself, I’m safest in the centre. He could feel frustration biting at the back of his mind. He didn’t have any time to waste, yet it looked like the only thing he could do was wait. His programming was throbbing through his brain, like dark liquid coating the inside of his skull. It was lining up his options: surely NJ7 wouldn’t be checking the boot of every car, would they? What about the undercarriages?
Jimmy rounded a corner and realised that his body had subconsciously guided him to one of the station’s service entrances. He moved without hesitation, keeping his head ducked low behind the mounds of discarded plastic crates. This was where the stock was delivered to the retail and refreshment outlets. It was a little late for a delivery, but if any supply lorry had been held up it could provide Jimmy with two things: a much needed breakfast and a potential escape opportunity.
Within seconds, Jimmy’s prayers were answered. A white van swung into one of the bays. It backed up to a set of loading doors and stopped. Jimmy waited for the driver to get out. He’d have to choose his moment carefully. What was in the van, he wondered. Sandwiches? Crisps? Muffins? There was nothing on the van that gave any clue—no writing, no logo… But Jimmy’s chance to find out didn’t come.
The van simply waited for about a minute, then pulled off again. Jimmy let out a soft grunt of annoyance. His stomach turned over. Why on earth would a van pull up, wait, then pull off again? It didn’t matter. Jimmy had a choice: find a way into the station through the doors and swipe some food, or wait here for another van to show up. He wasn’t in a waiting mood.
Checking the positions of all the security cameras, Jimmy crept out from his hiding place. He had to move slowly, letting his inner voice guide him through the lines of sight of all the cameras as they swivelled. He was only a few steps from the doors when he heard the squeak of old brakes. In an instant he dived behind another pile of crates, just in time to watch the same white van return to the bay it had left barely minutes before. Jimmy hunched low, peering between the plastic slats. Now he was intrigued.
Again, the van did nothing but sit there for about sixty seconds before roaring off. This time Jimmy didn’t move. Instead he counted. He couldn’t help it. A part of him longed to get into the back of the station and keep moving. But his programming froze his limbs and wouldn’t let them budge. After three minutes his patience was rewarded. The van returned.
Jimmy tried to get a look at the driver, but he couldn’t see past the reflection on the window before the van drove off again, only to be back three minutes later. It must be circling the station, Jimmy realised. But why? Was it some kind of signal? Was the driver waiting for instructions? Was he looking for someone? Jimmy couldn’t help wondering whether this van was part of the operation that was searching for him. But that didn’t feel right. Why would NJ7 have a single white van circling the station and returning to the same bay every few minutes?
The mystery only deepened when the van next returned. This time the driver gave two short blasts on the horn. Two well-built men in grimy blue overalls emerged from the station and immediately flung open the back of the van. Then they started loading it with crates, which were all either sealed or covered in grey blankets. As the first one emerged from the darkness of the station, Jimmy’s skin prickled, but he didn’t know why. He peered more closely at the crates.
They were obviously very heavy and the men were taking great care handling them. They wore huge gloves and set each crate down in the van like they were putting a baby to bed. Jimmy wanted to creep closer to work out what was going on. Something inside him seemed to be drawing him forwards. He took a deep breath to calm himself, but it only intensified the feeling. Then he realised why: it was something in the air.
Nitroglycerin.
The word seemed to lurk in his brain without him realising how it got there. It was as if he’d breathed it in. At first he wasn’t even sure what it meant, but then a low hum vibrated through his body, bringing with it a frightening certainty: highly volatile explosive.
Felix
