of clothing on them. One of the ‘apes’ had a lady’s straw sunhat on its head, the strap tucked under its chin to hold it on. Another had a threadbare winter scarf wrapped round its neck. One of the ‘salamanders’ even had a lady’s polka-dot summer dress on, far too large for its narrow frame.
They looked like children playing dress-up, children who’d raided their mother’s wardrobe and each taken a single item they rather fancied.
The creatures trotted silently along the tarmac road, cautiously watching both ways for signs of an approaching vehicle, even up into the starry sky with wide fearful eyes. They padded several hundred yards up the road. Finally, after a small noise from the ‘child’ – some sort of instruction – the pack of creatures flitted quickly across both lanes and into the enormous field on the far side. The stalks here were shorter, with pommel-like heads of something fluffy that batted against her face as they lumbered through.
Running beside her, she caught a glimpse of another ‘ape’. Stretched over his shoulders, she saw the dark shape of Lincoln’s long limp body. His head bumped up and down lifelessly against the other creature’s bulging chest … and for a moment she was afraid the man was dead, that she was all alone with these freaks. But then Lincoln flinched at a bump and spat a curse at his ape. A big three-fingered fist smacked the back of his head to shut him up. Lincoln snarled indignantly, cursed and struggled with the creature, landing ineffectual punches with his fists on its enormous shoulder, a heaving powerful elliptical bulge of muscle tissue that flexed and wobbled beneath ghost-pale skin as it continued to lumber with all the grace of a rhino, oblivious to Lincoln’s pitiful and futile attempt to fight back.
Sal closed her eyes, relieved he was still alive. Relieved she wasn’t alone, and desperately hoping these creatures were leaving a trail that Bob and Liam were going to be able to follow.
CHAPTER 42
2001, New York
‘All right, then, young lady,’ said Devereau. He puffed out a foul-smelling cloud of cigarette smoke that Maddy subtly wafted away from her face with the gentle flap of her hand. The colonel didn’t seem to notice that. ‘You’ll have whatever help I can offer you. But I’ll wager we have nothing of your sort of technology in our bunkers.’
‘Thank you.’
He shrugged. ‘If these gadgets, contraptions and devices of yours do what you say they’ll do, then perhaps it should be us thanking you …’ He hesitated, frowned and then slapped a hand over his tired eyes and shook his head. ‘But yes … no! Arghh! The logic of this time travel is confusing.’ He sighed. ‘Of course, if you’re successful and change history back to your version of events, I would not know any different, would I? We would know nothing of … of what has been done?’
Maddy nodded.
‘Affirmative,’ said Becks.
‘Good God, this time-travelling nonsense plays the devil with your mind,’ he muttered. ‘I should think it must drive you to madness dwelling on such things all the time.’
‘It gives me a headache,’ Maddy conceded. ‘But I think I’m beginning to get the hang of it now.’
It was dark in the archway. The generator had been turned off to conserve what fuel was left in the tank and the glow of a candle flickered across Maddy’s messy desk, reflected in the dark screens of the computer monitors. Outside the archway she could hear Devereau’s men talking in whispers, could see the glow of their cigarettes in the night as they kept watch for the Southern sky navy.
‘So … this travelling through time, what is it for you, Miss Carter, a profession?’ He wheezed a smoker’s laugh. ‘A hobby, is it?’
Maddy looked down at the mess across her desk, caught in the dancing glow of the candle light.
‘More a duty, really,’ she replied. ‘Not one I chose exactly. It just sort of happened, ended up being me and a couple of other poor suckers who have to do it.’
‘And you, Miss Becks? What about you?’
Becks looked at Maddy questioningly.
‘Hell, why not?’ Maddy smiled casually. ‘Go on, you might as well tell him the truth about what you are. None of it’s going to make any difference when … if … we can fix this mess.’
Becks nodded slowly. ‘That is true, Madelaine.’
‘What you are?’ Devereau looked confused. ‘You said “what” just then, didn’t you? Not “who”!’
‘I am a support unit,’ said Becks. ‘That is to