gns.theplutopact-第37部分

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　　At　5。25　p。m。　Tyler　and　his　assistants　wheeled　their　bulky　radioactivity…solidifying　machines　into　the　pyramid　of　death　which　was　officially　known　as　Section　Eight。　The　immediate　fate　of　a　nation　rested　upon　their　shoulders；　but　their　protective　headgear　hid　their　individual　expressions。
　　
　　At　6。30　p。m。　a　column　of　angry；　frightened　people　marched　out　of　the　Square　in　the　old　town；　heading　north。　The　few　remaining　soldiers　watched　from　a　distance。　At　the　moment　it　was　little　more　than　a　demonstration；　with　home…made　banners　and　painted　slogans　held　aloft。　Yet；　beneath　this　semi…orderliness　fear　and　anger　seethed。　Soon　it　would　e　to　the　boil；　and　sheer　terror　would　destroy　all　reason。
　　
　　Loader　was　the　first　to　hear　the　shouts　of　the　advancing　columns；　possibly　because　his　ears　were　tuned　in　anticipation。　He　wanted　them　to　e。　Christ；　how　he　wanted　that　mob　to　show　up！
　　
　　The　inbred　killer　instinct　in　Loader　dominated　his　every　action。　He　recalled　the　Special　Powers　Act。　Now　a　State　of　Emergency　reigned　throughout　the　country。　He　could　do　just　anything　he　wanted　in　the　interests　of　the　security　of　the　reactor。　They　would　back　him　up。　That　was　why　he　had　this　job。　Because　he　was　the　best　there　was…totally　ruthless；　and　an　obedient　servant　to　authority　。。。　so　long　as　it　suited　him。
　　
　　He　had　even　resented　the　arrival　of　the　army　within　the　Centre…took　it　as　a　personal　insult。　He　didn't　need　them。　Nobody　got　into　the　pound；　unless　it　suited　him　personally。　Now　he　had　to　prove　it　to　them。
　　
　　He　wished　he　could　fry　every　one　of　the　bastards　now　headed　this　way；　one　at　a　time。　He'd　stop　'em；　all　right。　He'd　stop　the　riot　before　the　fucking　army　even　knew　it　had　begun。
　　
　　Nearer。　Louder。　The　shouting　more　frenzied　with　every　passing　second。
　　
　　Now　he　could　see　them；　even　more　than　he　had　anticipated。　Five　hundred　at　a　rough　estimation…with　banners　and　sticks…mostly　just　yelling　abuse。　Terrified；　every　single　one　of　them；　and　not　even　a　shotgun　amongst　them。
　　
　　Loader　remained　inside　the　shelter。　He　eased　the　heavy　。45　autmatic　pistol　out　of　its　leather　holster。　The　very　feel　of　it　sent　the　blood　coursing　through　his　veins。　It　was　fully　loaded；　and　there　was　a　spare　clip　in　his　left　hand。　He　eased　the　safety…catch　forward；　his　narrowed　eyes　measuring　the　marchers'　progress…the　range。　Two　hundred　yards　。　。　；　one　hundred　and　fifty　。　。　。　one　hundred　。　。　。　fifty。
　　
　　He　stepped　out　into　the　open；　pistol　dangling　almost　casually　in　his　right　hand；　nostrils　flared；　lips　pressed　into　a　narrow　bloodless　line；　feet　slightly　apart。　Timing；　stance；　all　perfect。　One　against　five　hundred。　The　kind　of　odds　he　liked。
　　
　　Thirty　yards。
　　
　　'Hold　it！　Stay　where　you　are！'
　　
　　It　was　doubtful　whether　his　voice　was　heard　above　the　clamour。
　　
　　Twenty　yards；　they　saw　him　now　and　they　weren't　stopping　for　anybody！
　　
　　'Get　out　of　our　way；　you　fucking　bastard！'
　　
　　The　very　words　he　wanted　to　hear。　A　half　crouch；　a　blur　of　movement；　his　whole　body　perfectly　co…ordinated；　the　shots　so　close　together　that　they　might　have　e　from　a　machine…gun。　With　every　one　he　picked　a　target；　moving　from　one　to　another　instinctively。　The　speaker　from　the　statue　in　the　Square；　went　down　first。　Two　more…ex…workers　；　men　laid　off　only　the　other　day；　when　only　a　small　highly…skilled　labour　force　had　been　retained　on　Section　Eight。　A　woman；　stupid　bitch。　Four　more；　yobbos。
　　
　　There　was　screaming；　chaos…the　marchers　tripping　over　each　other　as　they　fell　back　in　total　disarray。
　　
　　The　brief　pause　Loader　needed。　Again　his　hands　moved　fast；　efficiently。　The　spare　clip。　The　。45　aligned。　This　time　he　was　going　to　fire　from　the　hip；　show　those　watching　from　behind　him　that　all　that　marksmanship　training；　two…handed　pistol　shooting；　the　left　used　as　a　support；　was　a　load　of　nonsense。　Loader　just　needed　a　gun；　nothing　else。
　　
　　A　single　shot　rang　out；　the　report　heavier　this　time。　Loader　straightened　up；　swaying　uncertainly；　the　Ml　Carbine　bullet　entering　his　body　between　the　shoulder…blades；　passing　out　through　the　chest；　and　then　smashing　the　skull　of　one　of　the　fleeing　mob…a　young　girl；　no　more　than　fifteen；　bowling　her　over　and　over　until　she　came　to　a　stop　in　a　bloody　heap　of　pulped　flesh　and　bone。
　　
　　The　。45　slipped　from　Loader's　fingers　as　he　fell。　He　dropped　to　his　knees；　slumped　forward。　Somehow　he　managed　to　roll　over　on　to　his　back；　a　mammoth　effort。　Numbness　rather　than　pain。　He　could　not　understand　it。　He'd　beaten　them。　They　were　running；　scattering；　yelling　their　curses　back　as　they　fled。　And　yet　。。。
　　
　　Loader　tried　to　raise　his　head；　it　was　impossible。　He　could　not　move。　He　did　not　need　to。　He　could　see　it　all　from　where　he　lay。　A　rifle　barrel　still　protruded　through　the　slit　hi　the　box　on　the　upper　platform；　the　barrel　smoking。　It　was　where　Barraclough　was　stationed。
　　
　　You　fucker！　Loader　couldn't　speak。　He　was　choking；　drowning　in　his　own　blood。　And　nobody　came　out　to　him。
　　
　　Tyler　and　his　colleagues　laboured　tirelessly　inside　Section　Eight。　The　labourers　sweated　beneath　their　heavy　protective　clothing；　in　a　scene　like　the　bizarre　setting　for　some　science…fiction　film。
　　
　　Tyler　glanced　continually　from　his　watch　to　the　pressure　gauge。　Both　seemed　to　stand　still。　It　was　mental　torture。　It　would　be　several　hours　before　they　knew；　one　way　or　the　other。　The　solidifiers　needed　a　full　twelve　hours'　trial　to　prove　or　disprove　their　worth。　Any　impatient　attempt　to　open　them　up　to　ascertain　their　current　efficiency　might　result　in　a　total　breakdown；　which　could　not　be　rectified　in　time。
　　
　　All　they　could　do　was　wait。
　　
　　
　　
　　　Chapter　17
　　
　　Canverdale's　broadcast　from　Scotland…on　radio　only…was　a　bit　of　a　non…event。　By　now　the　British　people　were　resigned　to　their　fate。　The　threat　of　a　third　world　war；　horrific　in　all　its　aspects；　did　not　cause　undue　sensation。　By　then　the　holocaust　would　have　exploded　with　full　force。　As　for　the　Russian　airliners；　supposedly　attempting　to　carry　out　a　rescue　operation　on　the　morrow…most　of　the　population　would　be　hiding　hi　every　conceivable　place　of　shelter。　The　airports　would　be　deserted。
　　
　　Canverdale　did　not　mention　the　current　attempts　to　solidify　the　escaping　radioactivity。　This　was　no　time　to　raise　a　nation's　hopes；　and　then　possibly　dash　them　a　few　hours　later。
　　
　　The　worst　of　the　rioting　had　subsided。　No　longer　did　crowds　surge　through　city　streets　bent　on　blind　destruction。　There　was　still　some　fighting；　of　course；　but　mostly　amongst　groups　peting　for　places　which　might　conceivably　offer　some　protection。　All　official　nuclear　shelters　were　already　filled…the　living　awaiting　the　end　in　their　mass　graves。
　　
　　London's　Undergrounds　were　crowded。　All　trains　had　ceased　to　run；　and　the　electric　currents　had　been　switched　off。　The　ventilation　shafts　had　not　yet　been　closed；　the　authorities　would　leave　that　until　the　very　last　moment。　To　do　so　now　would　certainly　condemn　many　to　death　by　suffocation。
　　
　　And　in　the　valley　itself　there　was　an　uneasy　calm。　Those　who　had　attempted　to　demonstrate　outside　the　nuclear　station　had　now　retreated　dejectedly　to　their　homes　to　await　the　end。　The　sudden　burst　of　gunfire　had　shocked　them　into　reality　again。　Fourteen　dead：　nine　killed　by　the　gunfire；　five　trampled　in　the　stampede　to　get　away　from　it　all。　Many　others　injured。
　　
　　Chief　Superintendent　Rollason　sat　at　his　desk；　an　ashtray　heaped　with　cigarette　ends　in　front　of　him；　another　of　his　favourite　brand　smouldering　between　his　lips。　Occasionally　he　was　forced　to　remove　it　during　a　bout　of　coughing。　He　had　had　that　cough　for　years；　lately　it　had　bee　much　worse。　He　wondered　why　he　had　never　given　so　much　as　a　passing　thought　to　cancer　before；　but　did　so　now。　Perhaps　because　he　realised　that　now　millions　would　probably　die　from　the　disease。　Ironic！　He　wished　somebody　would　phone　him。　Anybody。　It　was　the　quietest　night　he　had　known　for　years。　He　wished　to　God　that　one　of　his　men　would　bring　in　a　drunk；　just　to　relieve　the　monotony。　Every　officer　was　out　in　the　town　on　some　duty　or　other。　But　there　were　no　reports。　Nothing。　Fear　had　turned　into　boredom；　and　that　in　turn　brought　a　new　kind　of　terror…just　waiting　for　the　end。
　　
　　Dyne's　headache　did　not　lessen　any；　in　spite　of　the　darkness　and　the　tranquillity　of　his　private　quarters。　Rather　it　increased　to　alarming　proportions；　the　pounding　seemed　to　reverberate　right　down　to　his　chest。　This　frightened　him；　his　father　had　died　from　a　sudden　angina　attack。　Experts　said　that　heart　trouble　was　hereditary。　Alone　here　in　the　dark　he　experienced　a　trapped　feeling；　a　need　for　the　pany　of　the　others…something　he　had　never　felt　before。　Maybe　he　should　go　down　to　the　pound　below；　and　get　some　fresh　air。
　　
　　He　had　difficulty　in　walking；　staggering　from　side　to　side　to　the　deserted　corridor。　He　could　barely　see；　his　vision　tunnelled；　everywhere　dark　as　though　with　the　approach　of　dusk。　But　that　was　ridiculous…the　centre　was　always　fully　lit；　night　and　day。
　　
　　He　finally　located　the　elevator　and　experienced　dizziness　as　it　plunged　downwards；　ing　to　a　gentle　halt　which　threw　him　from　one　wall　to　the　other。　Christ；　his　eyes　hurt。　Nobody　about；　either；　not　even　a　guard　on　the　main　doors。　Probably　everybody　was　congregated　around　Section　Eight；　the　focal　point　of　the　whole　world　at　this　very　moment。
　　
　　The　wind　met　him　with　an　icy　gust　as　he　pushed　his　way　out　through　the　swing…doors。　He　shivered；　he　should　have　brought　a　top　coat；　but　he　wasn't　going　back　inside。　Jesus；　no。　Out　here　he　felt　a　kind　of　freedom；　an　urge　to　run　blindly；　to　put　as　much　distance　between　himself　and　Craiglowrie　as　possible。　But　no；　he　had　to　remain…go　up　with　the　rest　of　them　if　the　reactor　exploded。　Maybe　ten　minutes　out　here　would　do　the　trick。　Already　his　headache　seemed　to　have　lessened；　but　there　was　definitely　something　wrong　with　his　vision。
　　
　　He　glanced　back　and　felt　a　mounting　terror。　He　couldn't　even　see　the　Reprocessing　Centre；　not　so　much　as　a　glimmer　of　light　to　denote　its　presence。　It　was　as　though　Winston　Dyne　stood　on　a　barren　hillside；　the　ground　beneath　him　bereft　e