The White Mountain by David Wingrove Page A

waited in the darkness, fearing the worst, her cheeks wet, her stomach tight with anxiety. This was the nightmare come again. And this time it was much worse than before, for this time she could do nothing. Nothing but crouch there by the locked door, waiting.
    In the past hour she learned how dreadful a thing inaction was – far worse than the terror of hiding. When she had been balanced on the perch above the camera it had been somehow easier – much easier – than the awful limbo of not-knowing that came afterwards. Then she could think to herself, In a few moments this will be over, the cameras will stop moving and I can drop to the floor again. But the waiting was different. Horribly different. The very quality of time changed subtly, becoming the implement by which she tortured herself, filling the darkness with her vile imaginings.
    In the end her patience broke and she went out, afraid that they would still be there, waiting silently for her, but unable to stay in the gym a moment longer.
    Outside it was dark, silent. A strange smell hung in the air. She went slowly down the corridor, feeling her way, crouching warily, prepared to strike out with hand or foot, but there was nothing. Only her fear.
    At the first door she stopped, sniffing the air. The smell was stronger here, more sickly than in the corridor. She gritted her teeth and went inside, placing her feet carefully, staring into the darkness, trying to make out forms.
    There were vague shapes on the floor close to her. She leaned towardsthem, then jerked her head back, giving a small cry, unable to stop herself. Even in the darkness she could tell. Could see the wire looped tightly about their throats.
    She backed away, horrified, gasping for breath, her whole body shaking violently, uncontrollably. They were dead…
    She turned and made to run, but her legs betrayed her. She stumbled and her outstretched hands met not the hard smoothness of the floor but the awful, yielding softness of dead flesh. She shrieked and scrambled up, then fell again, her horror mounting as she found herself tangled amongst the bodies that littered the floor.
    She closed her eyes and reached out, taking the wall as her guide, small sounds of brute disgust forming at the back of her throat as she forced herself to tread over them.
    She went out into the dimly lit corridor. The outside barrier was unmanned, the lift empty. She stood there a moment, beside the open doors, then went inside and pressed to go down. It was the same at the bottom of the deck. There were no guards anywhere, as if the whole contingent had been withdrawn. She went through into the control centre for the deck and sat at the console, trying to work out how to operate the board. Her first few attempts brought no response, then the screen lit up and a soft MekVoc asked for her Security code.
    She stammered the number her father had made her memorize, then repeated it at the machine’s request. At once a face filled the central screen.
    â€˜ Nu shi Tolonen,’ the duty officer said, recognizing her at once. ‘What is it? You look—’
    â€˜Listen!’ she said, interrupting him. ‘There are no guards. The apartment has been attacked. They’ve…’ She bit it off, unable to say, yet it seemed he understood.
    â€˜Stay where you are. I’ll inform the General at once. We’ll get a special unit over to you within the next ten minutes.’ He was leaning out of screen as he spoke, tapping a scramble code into the machine next to him. Then he turned back, facing Jelka again. ‘All right. They’re on their way. The General will contact you directly. Stay by the board.’ He paused and drew a breath. ‘How long ago did this happen?’
    â€˜About an hour.’ She shuddered, trying not to think of what she had left back up the levels. ‘I think they’ve gone now. But there are…’ She swalloweddrily, then continued, steeling