The Dog Who Saved the World Page 19

  I hear the other one saying to Clem, “Turn the engine off and get out of the vehicle, son.” When Clem switches off the engine of the campervan, everything is suddenly quieter, and in the silence I begin to realize how crazy this whole escapade is.

  “Well, well, well, laddie. Where do we start?” the policeman says to Clem. “How about dangerous driving? I think we’ve probably got an unroadworthy vehicle here an’ all…”

  It’s all going on at once. Over by the road, only two cars seem to have been damaged and have pulled onto the side of the road. The traffic is moving again. The policeman who was talking to me has finished his lecture (“stupid risk…breaking the law…control your dog…”) and has told me to get back in the van with Mr. Mash. The full cull hasn’t started yet—only strays are being shot—but he must have thought that Mr. Mash was one till I came along. Sass is where I left her, but she’s crying quietly, and Dr. Pretorius has a face like a thundercloud: dark and brooding.

  Clem has been taken to the police car, where he’s being frisked by the other officer, and…Ramzy? Where on earth is Ramzy?

  As I climb into the van through the side door, he appears from behind the van and hops back in. The police officers haven’t even seen him.

  “Where have you been?” I whisper, but he shakes his head to shut me up, keeping his hands deep in his pockets.

  “You all,” says the officer who was armed. “Stay right here.” He swishes the sliding side door shut with a clunk, and we’re silent for a few moments, apart from Sass’s soft whimpering, which is really annoying.

  But I can hardly blame her. There is a sadness rising in my throat: the sort of sadness that turns into a lump, then into a sob, and, if I’m not careful, soon I’ll be crying along with Sass and I do not want that. Instead, I stick my face into Mr. Mash’s neck fur and try not to be mad at him for escaping.

  I stopped him from being shot. That’s good. But it has stopped us from getting to the dome, and that is very, very bad.

  We stay like that for several seconds, Mr. Mash and I, till I’m aware of a movement in the front of the van, and the noise of Dr. Pretorius coughing violently.

  When she’s finished, she takes a long, wheezing breath and says, “I guess I’m the only one who knows how to drive this bus. Outta the way—make room for a dying woman.” And, with that, she heaves her spindly frame over the bench seat, panting hard, till she’s sitting behind the steering wheel. Her hand pauses over the dangling key. “We got one chance, gang. One chance at this. If this battery isn’t charged by now, we’re toast!”

  “But…but…” I don’t even know what I’m going to object to, and she is definitely not taking any notice anyway. The policemen haven’t noticed her in the driver’s seat yet, but they will soon.

  “But what, kid?” she growls without even turning round. “Give up? I don’t think so. Besides…”

  She turns the key. The engine wheezes, splutters…and…

  Vrooom! It bursts into life.

  “…we gotta job to finish. And it may be the last thing I ever do! Ha ha ha haaa!”

  Through the window I see the horrified faces of the police officers as they realize what’s going on, and the massive grin on Clem’s face. He raises his handcuffed wrists in salute and says, “Yaaaay!” as the van, with its unlikely collection of passengers, bumps off across the grass, over the pavement, past the angry drivers of the two cars that collided, and joins the thin line of traffic headed to Whitley Bay. Behind us, the police car’s siren whoops angrily.

  “The police!” I shout. “They’ll catch us easily. What are…”

  But Dr. Pretorius is shaking her head, making her hair bobble furiously. “No, they won’t, thanks to our buddy Mr. Rahman and his screwdriver.”

  Ramzy is smiling shyly. Behind us, I can see the police officers outside their car, examining its rear wheels. The car had gone a short distance, then stopped.

  From his pocket, Ramzy pulls a short, sharpened screwdriver that had been rolling around on the floor of the van.

  “I did it before, back home. I was only six. They’d send the littlest kids out to stab the tires on the rebel soldiers’ trucks. If they caught you, they’d beat you. So we became good at not being caught.”

  I stare at Ramzy in disbelief. “You never told me about that!”

  He shrugs. “You never asked.”

  We have about a half mile left till we get to the Spanish City. Dr. Pretorius is gunning the engine hard, passing cars where she can, and a foul smell is filling the inside of the van.

  “Oh, Mashie!” I protest. “Not now!”

  He looks at me with his big eyes as if to say, Not me. Not this time!

  “Open the windows, folks!” shouts Dr. Pretorius between coughs. “That’s gas fumes and an overheating cat converter. You don’t wanna breathe much of this.”

  As I open the sliding window, I glance over at Ramzy, and he’s chuckling to himself, actually laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” I snap. He doesn’t seem to be taking this seriously at all. He shakes his head in wonder.

  “Look!” he shouts, pointing at us all. “One, two, three, four of us. And a dog. On an adventure. We’re the Famous Five!”

  “Ramzy! Have you any idea how serious this is? This is not some…”

  But I stop because, at the exact moment that the dome of the Spanish City appears, creamy white in the distance, the engine splutters, shudders, and dies. My words fade with the sound of the motor. Gradually and agonizingly, the van rolls to a halt in the middle of the road, causing our second traffic jam in about ten minutes. Again the car horns sound in protest.

  We’re a hundred yards away, maybe a little more.

  “Oh hell,” moans Dr. Pretorius. “Did no one think of puttin’ gas in this darned thing?”

  As we tumble out into the fresh air, the campervan’s interior is filling with smoke and there’s an acrid smell of electrical burning coming from the dashboard.

  We look ahead. There are people on the footpath between us and the Spanish City—walking up and down, chatting, carrying shopping bags, and talking on their phones. No dogs, of course. But it’s not exactly a clear route for a wheelchair.

  Dr. Pretorius turns back to look at Sass. “You! Can you do your…your thing again? Clear those people out of the way?”

  Sass nods. “Move aside!” she shouts as she runs ahead of us like a steamroller, and the people milling around the front of the Spanish City melt away in terror as she approaches.

  I don’t stop to think about what a weird picture we must make. Sass—in her bright lime-green running gear, windmilling her arms and yelling at people—is followed by Dr. Pretorius in her wheelchair, along with me, clutching a baffled-looking mutt, and Ramzy, as we push everyone along as fast as we can.

  I hear someone say, “Get that dog indoors!”

  Above us in the twilight sky, a police drone is flashing blue and squawking: “STOP! THIS IS A POLICE COMMAND. STOP!” But it’s coming too fast and trying to swoop low, and as we run through the Spanish City’s entrance, it smashes into the wall above us, chunks of metal and carbon fiber raining down onto the pavement behind us. Back where we left it, the campervan is now smoking badly from under the hood, and a few flames are licking up the sides.

  “Can somebody just explain to me what’s going on?” says Sass, her blond hair in disarray and sticking to her face. She’s bewildered, and her head is swiveling between us all.

  Ramzy says, “Later, Sass. Right now, we need your help.” I don’t know why we need her but I decide to trust Ramzy.

  From around her shoulders, Dr. Pretorius pulls off her woollen beach robe and gives it to Sass. “Put this on, honey.”

  Inside the precinct, the Polly Donkin Tea Rooms and the amusement arcade are shuttered up for the night. No one follows us as we head toward the back
of the echoey mall. Ramzy still has the key, and Dr. Pretorius sees this but says nothing. I think she understands what has happened.

  Minutes later, we’re through the back door that leads to the storage area and up to the dome. “Lock it behind us, Ramzy,” says Dr. Pretorius. “We do not wanna be interrupted. Now—who’s gonna carry me upstairs?”

  And now I know why we need Sass. She and Ramzy carry Dr. Pretorius easily up the metal staircase, followed by Mr. Mash. I go ahead and bring the doc’s wheeled desk chair from the control room and meet them when they get to the top. When Dr. Pretorius is in the chair, she’s convulsed by a violent coughing fit. She coughs and coughs, thumping the arm of the chair. When she’s finished, she’s gasping with the effort.

  She wheezes, “All righty. If I’ve got the timing right, Hawking II is already in position. We’ve already lost time.” She points at Sass. “You in the green: go back downstairs and make sure the back doors to the storage bay are secure, with the steel bar in position. It’s heavy but I reckon you can lift it.”

  Sass’s eyes light up, and without another word, she leaves the control room. Suddenly it’s as if everybody knows what to do. I’ve strapped the helmet on tight, squeezing the catch on the chinstrap into place and shoving the earpieces in. My fingers are trembling, and I’m trying not to think of the headache I suffered last time, but I can’t stop the fear completely.

  If I have any doubt about what I’m about to do, it’s dispelled when I look down at Mr. Mash, exhausted by the excitement and lying on his side in the control room, panting. I look around, and just for a moment—a few seconds—the room is quiet. I can’t see Ramzy, and Dr. Pretorius has stopped her frenzied key-bashing and is scrolling carefully through some text on a screen.

  I crouch down and take Mr. Mash’s head in my hands, and in the quiet, my damaged memory brings back the dogs I loved at St. Woof’s: Sally-Ann, and Ben, and…and…and the ugly one whose collar disc is on my bedside table. I swallow hard. Now is not the time to get all emotional.

  “Thanks for getting better, Mashie!” I whisper. “Your blood might be our only hope.” He turns his head to give my hand a lick.

  Lick, germs, viruses…I just don’t care anymore. I’m just hoping—assuming—that Mr. Mash is better. If he isn’t, then this whole venture may be a waste of time. This has to work.

  I stand in the doorway to the studio. Dr. Pretorius has been bashing away at the keyboard for minutes now; the screens and consoles are lighting up and flashing, warning sounds are beeping, and at last she turns to me with a fiery light in her old eyes.

  “You sure about this?” she asks, and I nod. I’m about to go through the door when there’s a movement from the corner of the annex. Ramzy’s standing there with another helmet strapped to his head.

  “If you thought I’d let you do this alone, you don’t understand the spirit of adventure!” he declares in a grand voice. I know the whole idea of Ramzy coming along probably increases the danger, but it feels like the opposite.

  He says, “Fire me up, Dr. P—we’re going in!”

  “No, Ramzy—it’s too dangerous! Think of the headache you’ll get,” I say.

  “Ach—what’s a headache, man, when you’re saving the world? Besides, it’ll take two of us to fight the scorpion.”

  I hadn’t even thought of the scorpion.

  Thanks, Ramzy. Thanks a million.

  And, with that, he grabs my hand and together we shuffle to the center of the ball-bearing floor as the door locks shut behind us and we’re plunged into total darkness.

  I can already feel the tingling in my scalp.

  In my ear, Dr. Pretorius coughs and says, “Coordinates set to place you outside the hospital at midday, exactly one year from now. Got that? From here on in, you’re on your own. Ramzy—the addition of your prefrontal cortex waves is an unknown quantity. We’re sailin’ in uncharted waters, my friends. Excuse me,” and there’s another burst of coughing.

  Then, as before, the shapes begin to appear in front of me—only this time they’re accompanied by Ramzy going, “Whoa! Awesome! Hey, look at you!”

  I turn to face him, and he looks the same, more or less. Up close, some of the edges of his body, at the shoulders, for example, are a little pixelated. But it’s Ramzy: he’s in the same dirty Real Madrid top and school shorts; he’s wearing a bicycle helmet. I look beyond him, and the world is coming into focus. Trees form before my eyes, the road, the grass verges, the hospital building.

  “Take a sniff, guys. You’ll notice I’ve fixed the smell thing,” says Dr. Pretorius. Then she coughs again. “Oh, and…by the way…the, ah…the scorpion. Li’l ol’ Buster. He may have, kinda, ah…”

  I stop marveling and feel a chill come over me. Why is she being so hesitant? “What is it?” I say.

  “With me in the hospital, the whole program has been left running unchecked for the last three days. The artificial intelligence has probably had some effect on the scorpion that may not be altogether…desirable, but then again it may be totally fine and dandy. Just, you know—keep an eye out.”

  I can’t swallow. Not only am I as scared as heck, but there’s something not right.

  “Are you sure the date is right?” I say through the microphone. “There’s…I dunno…”

  Dr. Pretorius replies, “Accordin’ to this, Georgie, it’s dead right. Midday on July twenty-seventh one year from now. What’s wrong? The video feed to the control room is down: I can’t see anything.”

  “Can’t you see what I see? It’s empty. There are hardly any cars.”

  Ramzy looks around. “You’re right. There’s nobody about. It’s really quiet.”

  A tide of litter is banked up along the little wall, and the grass on the verges is higher than my ankles. The flower beds where we picked flowers only an hour or so ago are choked with weeds. I sniff: there’s an unclean smell everywhere, like old trash bags.

  But it’s when I turn to look at the hospital building that I gasp in shock. A chain-link fence three or four yards high, topped with vicious razor wire, has been erected all along the perimeter. The parking lot is empty apart from one or two dirty-looking cars and some green army vehicles. The main entrance has been converted into a military checkpoint, with uniformed soldiers guarding a large metal gate and carrying big guns across their chests.

  We’re on the other side of the road, and no one has noticed us yet.

  “Can they see us?” asks Ramzy.

  I think back to my encounter with Norman Two-Kids. “Oh yes,” I say. “While we’re in the program, they’re as real as us. But I don’t think we should make ourselves conspicuous.”

  “But what’s happening? Why all the soldiers? I don’t like this, Georgie.”

  “Me neither. Dr. Pretorius? We can’t get in. Can you see the fence?”

  Dr. Pretorius clears her throat and rasps, “I can see bits of it now. It’s pretty low-resolution, but yeah: soldiers, barbed wire. Seems to me that the hospital’s become a military zone, as would be expected if a disease gets out of control. Faced with a plague, people are gonna get pretty angry, and desperate, and so…” She breaks off to cough, and by this stage I’m getting very scared.

  “And so,” she continues, “be real careful.”

  “But how do we get into the hospital? That’s where the cure will be. There’s soldiers and guns and everything. And a huge fence.”

  “Like I say, don’t take risks,” says Dr. Pretorius. “So long as you’re in there, they’re as real as you are.”

  “This is too weird,” says Ramzy, shaking his head, but I’ve had an idea.

  “Follow me,” I say. “And act natural.”

  “Yup. As natural as two kids in a 3-D virtual future with bicycle helmets on can act,” he says, but he follows me anyway, up the road, past more of the hospital, till we’re looking at the big old
building that houses the Edward Jenner Department of Biobotics. There are no soldiers here, although the wire fence looks just as solid. There are some stacked-up metal crates and oil drums that could offer some cover for what I’m about to try.

  “Dr. Pretorius, what would happen if we just ran at the fence, full tilt?” I ask. I’m forming an idea, but I have no clue if it’ll work.

  “Well, ordinarily, when you touch something, the MSVR tricks your brain into believing you’ve touched it. So the fence would feel real.”

  “But it’s an illusion, right? There’s nothing actually stopping us. The fence isn’t really there. So, if we ran at it, what could stop us?”

  Ramzy pipes up: “Remember the deck chair I threw at the scorpion on the first day! It went straight through it!”

  “I don’t recommend it, kiddo. This is totally untested.”

  “The whole thing is totally untested,” I say. “In fact, we’re testing it right now. And, right now, we have no choice. Come on, Ramzy. Now!”

  It’s desperation. I have come this far, and I’m not going to let an imaginary fence—however realistic—stand in my way. I look up the road for cars; there are none and I grab Ramzy’s wrist and we run at the fence.

  “Head down, eyes shut!” I yell, and at the moment we’ve crossed the road and are about to hit the fence, I feel Ramzy’s wrist twist free of my grip.

  “No!” he shouts, but I’m going too fast to stop myself and as I hit the wire fence, I feel a shock go through my whole body like a million cans of fizzy drink being opened inside me at once. I feel myself hit the hard ground and I scream out in pain at the shock and the impact, but…

  I know the fence didn’t stop me. I kept moving when I should have been stopped in my tracks.

  I can’t focus my vision and there’s a ringing in my ears, but I sit up, look back, and there’s Ramzy on the other side of the fence.

  My heart is thudding in my chest, and there’s a pain behind my eyes, but I’ve made it! I start to laugh. “Come on, Ramzy: you can do it too. It hurts but it’s OK!”