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  He beckoned to Trenchman.

  ‘Thought I could feel her pulling to the left. Looks like we’ve got a flat.’

  Trenchman crouched and examined the flaccid tyre. Something white embedded in rubber. He worked the shard lose and held it in his palm.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Osborne.

  ‘I believe it’s a chunk of human bone.’

  ‘Hope to God we have a spare wheel.’

  ‘We do. It’s in the trunk.’

  Morgan climbed a dune and looked out over the sandscape. Akingbola joined him.

  ‘Can you feel it?’ asked Morgan. ‘A rising wind.’

  ‘Air getting colder by the minute. How often do you reckon it rains in a place like this?’

  ‘Once a decade at a guess. You can bet it’s a big fucking deluge.’

  They looked around.

  ‘You’d think there would be smoke. A fuelled-up B-52 nosedives into the desert. You’d think there would be a big-ass crater.’

  ‘Check it out,’ said Akingbola. He pointed east. ‘Something on the horizon. See? A red blur.’

  Morgan shielded his eyes and peered at the distant haze.

  ‘Christ. Sandstorm. Heading this way.’

  Trenchman climbed onto the limo roof. He cracked a cream soda, took a swig, and set the can down by his feet.

  He powered up his radio, extended the antenna and did a three-sixty sweep.

  ‘Anything?’ asked Osborne, standing beneath him.

  ‘Think I got some weak transponder hits. Hear that? The tone? Very weak. Can’t get a lock.’

  ‘Atmospherics?’

  Trenchman gestured to distant crags.

  ‘All kinds of metal in those hills. Copper. Nickel. Uranium. Playing merry hell with the signal. They could be sitting in the sand a hundred yards away, broadcasting Mayday after Mayday. We wouldn’t know a damned thing about it.’

  Osborne opened the trunk. He pulled back carpet and lifted the heavy wheel free. He rolled it to the front of the vehicle and propped it against the wing.

  He returned to the trunk to fetch the jack.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Akingbola.

  ‘Five minute job. No big deal.’

  ‘Looks like there’s a sandstorm heading this way.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Miles out. Looks big.’

  ‘We’ll be all right. Just climb in the limo and sit it out. Might have to do a little digging once the storm has passed.’

  Akingbola gestured to Trenchman standing on top of the limo. He spoke low so he couldn’t be overheard:

  ‘I guess you and the colonel are pretty tight.’

  ‘Give or take.’

  ‘He wants to save the aircrew. That’s great. That’s admirable. But we’re putting our necks at serious risk out here. Totally reliant on the limo. If anything happens to the vehicle, we’re fucked. We lost one wheel. What happens if we lose a second? Long fucking walk.’

  ‘He saved your ass back at the airfield. Remember that.’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. Believe me, I’m grateful. But it won’t help a soul if we die out here on some kamikaze rescue mission. Talk to him. Make him see sense. We need to find a highway, start making long-term plans.’

  Osborne grabbed the jack from the trunk. He threw it down beside the flat wheel. He ducked inside the passenger compartment and ripped the door from the snack cabinet.

  He shoved the laminate door beneath the front axle, used it as a base to stop the jack sinking into sand.

  He took off his field jacket, stretched his arms, then began to work the crank. The wheel slowly lifted out of the sand.

  He crouched and prised the chrome hub. He threw it aside, skimmed it like a Frisbee.

  He unscrewed retaining nuts with a four-way cross wrench and lifted the heavy radial clear.

  He turned to Akingbola:

  ‘Check the ignition is shut off, okay? Don’t want to kill the battery.’

  He examined the burst tyre. It was a run-flat, military spec, should have retained pressure even when punctured. But a chunk of femur had punched a hole big enough for his finger. Put the tyre beyond repair.

  Faint cry behind him.

  He turned around.

  Morgan, gesticulating from the crest of a high dune.

  He waved back.

  ‘Yeah. I know. Sandstorm.’

  ‘Help,’ screamed Morgan. ‘Jesus Christ, help.’

  Osborne sprinted up the steep gradient.

  Morgan was waist deep in sand and sinking fast.

  Osborne gripped his arms and pulled. Trenchman and Akingbola joined him.

  ‘Something’s got me,’ said Morgan. ‘Something’s got my legs.’

  ‘Quicksand?’

  ‘There’s something in the sand. Something alive. It’s gripped my leg.’

  The three gripped Morgan’s arms and pulled hard as they could. Hard to get a firm footing on sand. Morgan screamed and grimaced, shoulders at the point of dislocation.

  ‘A snake?’ asked Trenchman, desperately trying to make sense of the situation. ‘Some kind of sand snake?’

  Morgan was now wrenched neck deep.

  ‘Oh Jesus, help me.’

  Osborne and Akingbola gripped his wrists and pulled. Trenchman crouched behind Morgan and dug with both hands, feverishly scooped sand aside like a dog burying a bone.

  Morgan’s head hauled below the sand. He screamed and coughed dust. Osborne and Akingbola fell to their knees and dug to expose his mouth and nose, restore his airway.

  ‘Mother of God.’

  Trenchman stood back, drew his side arm and expended a full clip into the sand behind Morgan.

  A final, whimpering scream, then Morgan was jerked below ground. Osborne gripped the stricken man’s hand.

  Final wrench.

  Morgan was gone.

  They stood back and contemplated the depression in the sand.

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’ said Akingbola.

  The sand in front of Trenchman’s feet shifted and bulged.

  ‘Shit.’

  He jumped backwards, slotted a fresh mag into his Beretta.

  They began to edge back towards the limo. Osborne and Akingbola drew their pistols and trained them at the ground.

  The ground in front of Osborne swirled and seethed. Something beneath the sand was moving towards them with a purpose.

  ‘Run.’

  They turned and sprinted back to the limousine. They vaulted onto the hood, scrabbled for purchase, then jumped onto the roof, boots skidding on slick metal.

  They stood, looking down at the sand surrounding the vehicle.

  ‘This is fucking insane,’ murmured Osborne.

  ‘Isn’t happening,’ murmured Akingbola. ‘Can’t be happening.’

  Trenchman adjusted grip on his Beretta.

  ‘Make them count.’

  The ground beside the limo bulged and heaved. They opened fire, triple volley of gunshots merging to a continual roar, air filled with gun smoke and dust.

  24

  They sat in the limo and listened to the storm rage outside. Semi-dark. Nothing beyond the windows but swirling sand. Dust accumulated against the windshield, slowly blocking out the light.

  The typhoon buffeted the vehicle. Whistle and moan. The car rocked on its suspension.

  None of them spoke. Each locked in their own private horror.

  Akingbola loaded an AR-15 and chambered a round.

  Osborne picked up Morgan’s helmet and turned it in his hands. He contemplated the interior webbing. Nylon stained with sweat. Trace evidence of Morgan’s physicality, testament he had, moments earlier, been a living, breathing thing.

  Akingbola lay the rifle across his lap and cracked a Coke.

  ‘Take it easy with those,’ said Trenchman. ‘Best save a few for later.’

  Osborne took a cigar from his breast pocket and bit the tip. He chewed the unlit Cohiba.

  ‘We got to change that tyre.’

  ‘
Better wait for the storm to pass,’ said Trenchman.

  Osborne shook his head.

  ‘The thing beneath the sand. God knows what it is. But it tracked us easy enough. Not sure how. Body heat, footsteps, whatever. But the storm might give us good cover. Lots of noise, lots of dust. A chance to haul ass before it realises we’re gone.’

  Trenchman thought it over.

  ‘Yeah. Worth a shot.’

  ‘But we got to do it from the car. That’s the trick. We got to bolt that wheel in place without setting foot on the ground.’

  Trenchman pulled back the sunroof and emerged into the storm. Shemagh wrapped round his head, eyes shielded from driving sand by wraparound shades.

  He climbed out onto the roof, crouched and braced against the buffeting wind.

  Osborne followed.

  Akingbola stood upright in the vacant sunroof, rifle at port arms, ready to provide cover fire.

  Trenchman lay on the hood. Osborne knelt behind and gripped his legs.

  Trenchman hung over the left wing of the limo. He pushed the punctured wheel aside. It rolled a couple of yards then toppled flat. He waited to see if the vibration of the falling tyre would lure whatever nightmarish thing snatched Morgan beneath the ground.

  No movement. Just shifting, wind-driven sand.

  The spare tyre stood propped against the side of the vehicle. He rolled the heavy radial into position in front of the vacant wheel-well. He struggled to lift the wheel, line it with the hub bolts and slot it home.

  ‘Lower,’ he shouted. ‘Get me lower.’

  Osborne pushed him forwards. Trenchman’s entire torso hung from the car, letting his arms reach the ground.

  He raked the sand. He found the cross wrench. He probed the dust trying to locate the eight lug nuts. He unearthed them one by one, tried not to think what might be hiding beneath the sand, ready to seize his hands and drag him head first beneath the dunes.

  He engaged the bolt thread and screwed the lugs finger-tight. He used the cross wrench to wind them secure. His ballistic glasses fell to the ground. He ignored them and continued to anchor the wheel.

  ‘We’re done,’ he shouted.

  He reached for his Oakleys. The sand bulged and puckered, and suddenly they were gone.

  They dropped through the sunroof. Akingbola secured the window, shutting out the storm. Typhoon wind howl abruptly silenced.

  ‘We cool?’

  ‘It’s still out there,’ said Trenchman. ‘Whatever the fuck it is. Circling like a shark.’

  ‘So let’s split.’

  Trenchman climbed over the driver partition and took the wheel.

  Ignition. Revs. He worked the shift, rocked the vehicle forward/reverse until he jerked the limo clear of the jack. Wheels hit the ground. Sudden traction.

  The limo pulled out and swung a wide arc slewing sand.

  ‘Where we headed?’ asked Akingbola.

  ‘Out of this fucking desert.’

  Trenchman retraced their route as best he could. Visibility down to a couple of yards. Headbeams lit driving sand. The car lurched and rocked. Osborne clung to the passenger dash. Akingbola gripped the stripper pole.

  Heavy thud.

  ‘What was that,’ said Akingbola.

  ‘Think we left the trunk open.’

  Second thud. They looked up.

  ‘Something on the roof.’

  Akingbola reached to pull back the roof window.

  ‘No,’ said Osborne. ‘Let me.’

  He crouched on the passenger seat. He drew his pistol and hit the side window control.

  DOWN.

  Motor whine. Typhoon wind and blustering sand.

  He pulled the Beretta from his chest rig and squirmed out the window. He gripped the doorframe for support.

  Something squatting on the roof. A malignant thing glimpsed through the swirling storm. It crouched like a spider, arm poised like it was about to punch through roof metal into the compartment below.

  Quick front-sight aim. Instinctual. He pumped the trigger. Six shots, rapid fire. Bullets smacked flesh. Torn muscle. No blood. The creature took the impacts like they were nothing.

  It lunged.

  Osborne lost his grip on the doorframe and toppled backwards. He hit the sand and rolled.

  Trenchman jerked the car to a halt and kicked open the passenger door. He leant out the vehicle, hand outstretched.

  ‘Get in here. Get off the sand.’

  Osborne snatched up his pistol. Scrambled to his feet and ran. He dove into the limo and slammed the door. He hit UP. Motor whine. The window raised halfway, then rotted fingers gripped the glass.

  Skull face. Empty sockets. Yellow teeth.

  ‘Hit it.’

  Trenchman stamped the accelerator.

  Osborne fired point blank, emptied the clip, shattered the window, blew chunks of skull, jaw and teeth.

  The creature released its grip and fell away.

  Driver compartment full of gun smoke.

  The vehicle sped across the sand, lurched side to side, threw Osborne and Trenchman around.

  Osborne reloaded his pistol.

  ‘What the fuck was that thing?’ muttered Osborne.

  Trenchman opened his mouth like he was about to speak. Then the limo hit a bank and rolled. He hit the brakes, but it was too late.

  The vehicle on its side. He and Osborne thrown together.

  The limo on its roof. Buckling metal, shattering glass.

  Gun discharge.

  A final roll. The car toppled upright. Suspension rocked to a standstill.

  Abrupt silence.

  Upholstery dusted with glass. Passenger compartment filled with dust and swirling sand.

  Trenchman unsheathed a knife and stabbed the airbag. Shattered nose. He snorted blood. He used his shemagh to mop his mouth and chin.

  He turned in his seat.

  ‘Everyone okay?’

  He looked over his shoulder. Akingbola lying on the carpet floor of the passenger compartment. Deep shock. Rifle in his hand, smoke from the barrel, a spent cartridge smouldering on the carpet by his side.

  A ragged bullet hole in the upholstery of the driver’s partition.

  Osborne sat in the passenger seat, hands clamped over a hole in his belly, blood pooling in his lap.

  25

  Trenchman unwound the shemagh from Osborne’s neck, balled it up and pressed it to the wound.

  ‘Hold it tight. It’ll slow the bleeding.’

  He helped Osborne press bloody hands to the wadded fabric.

  ‘There. That should help.’

  It was something to do, something to say. The rifle round had ripped a massive hole in the man’s gut. Torn him wide open. Shredded organs. Massive internal haemorrhage. He had a couple of minutes left to live.

  ‘Hey,’ said Osborne. ‘Akingbola.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Osborne, gesturing to the blood-soaked wound in his belly. ‘Shit happens. Don’t beat yourselves up over it.’

  He sat looking out of the shattered windshield. His face was white. Blood on his lips. Eyelids drooped in a terminal drowse.

  Trenchman cranked the ignition, tried to get the engine to engage. Weak revs. He gunned the throttle, worked the gears forward/reverse. No traction.

  Akingbola leant out the shattered side window, shielded his eyes from swirling sand. The wheels were bedded so deep they were barely visible.

  ‘We’re not going anywhere.’

  Trenchman turned up the air con. He angled dash vents so Osborne got a cool blast on his face.

  ‘Probably ought to save the battery,’ said Akingbola.

  ‘For what?’

  Osborne watched sand accumulate on the buckled hood of the limo.

  ‘Infected,’ he murmured. ‘Pretty far gone. Almost rotted down to bone. But smart. Never seen them act that way. Sly. Strong.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Trenchman. ‘Swimming around in the sand. I’d call bullshit, if I hadn’t seen
it with my own eyes. Something new.’

  ‘You think the fuckers can learn? Evolve?’

  ‘Maybe there are different types. Maybe we shook a nest of boss-level dudes.’

  Osborne took a deep, shuddering breath and sagged in his seat. Then he straightened his back and widened his eyes, like he was trying to stay awake, fighting for a few seconds more life.

  ‘Red jumpsuit. Notice that? Thing was wearing a red jump suit.’

  ‘Must be pretty close to the target point. Agency black site. God knows what they were doing out here.’

  ‘Might be more of the bastards. Head west. Get to the hills. Three or four miles of dunes, then you reach hard ground. Face the fuckers in the open.’

  Trenchman nodded.

  ‘Okay.’

  Osborne reached out and stroked the dash vinyl. He looked at his right hand front and back, rubbing his fingers together like he was saying goodbye to his sense of touch.

  ‘Guess you guys have a choice. Leave now and face the storm, or wait until later and face killer heat.’

  Trenchman nodded.

  ‘Personally, if I were in your position, I would wait until later. Wouldn’t want to be blundering around in a cyclone.’ He smacked dry lips. ‘Got a drink? A real drink?’

  Akingbola tossed Trenchman a plastic miniature cognac. Trenchman unscrewed the cap and held the little bottle to Osborne’s lips. He sipped. Blood diffused through the bottle of amber liquid turning it near black.

  Osborne reached for a vest pouch with a trembling hand and popped the flap. He gave Trenchman two clips of 9mm. He opened another pocket and took out a compass.

  ‘Take every can of Coke, every pack of peanuts. Fill a bag. Don’t leave anything behind.’

  Trenchman nodded. He took the compass and mags, and stuffed them in a pocket.

  Osborne leaned forwards, like he had something urgent to impart.

  ‘And don’t forget. They’ll need you in the winter garden.’

  ‘Winter garden?’

  Osborne closed his eyes, leaned back and died.

  Trenchman watched him a while, watched residual colour drain from the dead man’s face.

  He turned to Akingbola.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘What about the storm?’

  ‘Fuck the storm. Let’s get out of here.’

  26