Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [78]
‘Please specify new target parameters or use existing ones,’ repeated the computer.
‘Activate existing parameters,’ said Creed.
‘Activated,’ acknowledged the computer.
‘Where are the targets now?’
‘Ten metres inside the firing zone.’
‘OK, now you can start firing,’ said Creed. He jammed his fingers into his ears to protect them from the echoing thunder of the machine guns on the hull.
But nothing happened.
Creed cautiously took his fingers out of his ears. Nothing.
Silence except for the faint hum of air-conditioning in the vehicle.
‘Why aren’t you firing?’ he said.
‘No targets that match parameters,’ said the computer tersely.
Creed swore again and swung around to look at the screen. Sure enough, the stewardess was out there on the podium, walking slowly towards the armoured car. If anything, she was moving even more unsteadily now, practically staggering. That wasn’t what got Creed’s attention, though.
The stewardess was staggering by herself. The horde of dogs that had been following her, guiding her, had melted away. Not one of them was visible out in the big open space of the podium. They must have retreated to the cluster of houses at the edge of the concrete apron, Creed thought.
His first reaction on seeing the stewardess on her own was a surge of triumph. In the back of his mind he’d been wrestling with the problem of how to get her safely separated from the dogs. Now the problem seemed to have solved itself neatly.
Perhaps a little too neatly.
He kept watching the screen while he tried to decide what to do. The stewardess was moving in an increasingly erratic manner. It was as if the dogs had been keeping her upright. As Creed watched she stopped walking altogether, standing there in the moonlight. ‘Standing’ was perhaps the wrong word. She was swaying unsteadily on her feet and almost immediately she began to topple.
‘Shit,’ whispered Creed.
He watched helplessly as the stewardess fell forward on to the pavement, first on to her knees, then forward from the waist in a kind of clumsy shallow dive, flat on her face.
Creed winced as he watched her head connect with the concrete.
Then he was out of his seat and moving down the aisle of the armoured car, scooping up a first-aid kit as he went.
He paused for an instant by the arms locker to grab the first two weapons that came to hand, a metal-hafted knife and some kind of automatic pistol.
Creed dropped the knife into his boot as he put his foot on the bottom rung of the metal ladder that led up to the hatch. The pistol had a clip of ammunition taped to its grip.
He untaped the bullets and slammed them into the pistol as he climbed, unfastened the hatch, and clambered out into the night.
Creed paused for a moment as he moved down from the vehicle, scanning the housing estate for signs of activity.
Everything was silent, still. But inside his head some kind of warning signal was going off. This was all too pat, too easy.
Still, he didn’t see what else he could do. He had to make a move. The woman was lying there, just a few metres from the armoured car. She was in bad shape. He had to get her on board and it looked like the dogs had withdrawn from the area, for
whatever reason. Who knew how long they’d be gone?
He had to act now, before they came back.
He had no choice, but still it felt all wrong. You didn’t spend a lifetime in Creed’s line of work without developing some instincts. Now those instincts were telling him this was some kind of trap. Every nerve in his body was shrieking. But Creed kept climbing down from the armoured car. He kept telling himself that the computer would automatically blast any dog that came near. He would be perfectly safe.
‘Sure,’ muttered Creed, a cold feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He hit the ground and began to run. His blunt shadow bobbed ahead of him in the brilliant moonlight as he sprinted across the concrete.
He reached the stewardess and crouched beside her.
She was lying face down on the podium, motionless. He touched the stained shoulder of her tunic and there